CHAPTER XXXIV.

A PAINFUL CHOICE.

"The trench is dug, the cannon's breath
Wings the far hissing globe of death."
The Siege of Corinth.

It was a grave disappointment to Lucas Plunkett, when, on the following morning he sought an interview with his cousin, to learn that she could not, even for a brief space, quit her sister's room. The invalid had become much worse, and required Miss Dillon's constant care. If Mr. Plunkett would come on the morrow, perhaps her sister's condition would permit Miss Dillon to see him. Mr. Plunkett did come on the morrow, and on the next day, and yet again on the day succeeding, but the condition of the sick child was in no way bettered, and the interview he sought could not be granted; whereupon Mr. Plunkett began to feel himself aggrieved, to consider he had been trifled with, and determined that his cousins should feel the want of his protection before he waited on them to offer it again. In pursuance of this resolve, he interrupted his visits to their house, and waited till he should be invited to resume them. But he waited in vain. Day succeeded day, and still the message he expected did

not come.

Yet Mr. Plunkett was in error when he judged himself deceived and trifled with. The plea on which Mary Dillon excused herself from meeting him was not forged to deliver her from a disagreeable position. Her sister really required her unceasing care. Her solicitude for Kathleen had become so engrossing that it was only at rare intervals she thought at all of the resolution it had cost her such a struggle to make. The ailments of which the child had so meekly complained were but the first symptoms of an enfeebling illness which made the little prisoner more a prisoner than before. The air she breathed was always dense and hot now, and it was no longer a rare thing for her to pass a sleepless night. The summer came, parched and sultry, and all through it the sufferer breathed by day the suffocating vapours of the scorched narrow street, and kept her painful vigils during the dreary nights. But all this time monotony was not one of the afflictions of her sickness. Within a short distance of the room in which she lay a fierce conflict was being waged, and the sounds of the dread engines of war came very often to disturb her solitude.

Ireton's army had invested Limerick in the early spring. He had essayed the reduction of the city by diplomacy and intrigue, but promises and plots had been alike unsuccessful, and he was compelled to resort to the tedious operations of a siege. His brigades arrived, and took up their positions before the walls, his forts were constructed, his siege guns mounted, and death in a new shape was hurled into the city where death, in another and more hideous guise, was already running mad riot.

It is a painful thing to live within the walls of a beleaguered city, to wait in suspense the end of a struggle in which you are supremely interested without being able in any way to influence the result; to sit still and listen to the crash and din of guns and bursting missiles; to hear the rush and tramp of hurrying feet, passing ceaselessly to and fro; to watch the patient, methodical movements of the troops on duty, and the restless agitation of the townsfolk; to ask a hundred questions about the events of the passing hour, and to be bewildered by a hundred conflicting answers. All through the summer, the miseries of a strict blockade weighed heavily on the citizens of Limerick. The plague raged fiercely within the walls, and hostile forces lay encamped around it. Fearful of catching the infection, the besiegers permitted none to leave the city, and, with many circumstances of cruelty, drove back again into the pest-stricken town the miserable refugees who fled away from the dreaded contagion. Animated by the example of their leader the Ulster garrison struggled against the ravages of the pestilence, the despondency of the citizens, and the fierce attacks of the besiegers. The well-fed burghers murmured against the privations they underwent, the timid protested against being shut up with the plague in a crowded town, the traitors within the walls negotiated with the enemy outside, but the Ulstermen still held firm against murmurs within and attacks from without. They were seconded by a strong patriotic party among the citizens, and they determined to resist to the end. The prevailing epidemic swept their ranks; they died beside their arms, but their courage did not diminish with their numbers. Autumn came, and the sturdy old fortress on the Shannon was still untaken. Its walls still stood the shock of Ireton's guns, and the stout hearts of its defenders beat still undaunted. But the murmurs of the discontented had grown louder and more importunate, and the efforts of the disaffected and the traitorous more energetic. All the while the plague scattered death impartially among besiegers and besieged. Winter was approaching; either the siege must speedily be raised, or Ireton must take Limerick. He renewed his overtures to the citizens, but the influence of the patriot party was still predominant, and his offers was rejected. Ireton swore to punish with death the contumacy of his opponents in the councils of the city, and prepared for a last attempt upon the stubborn walls. He had learned the important secret that at one point those grim, black barriers had no lining of earth behind them to steady them against his heavy shot, and he promised himself that there he could open a passage for his grenadiers into the town. constructed a new battery in front of that one weak spot, and mounted on it his largest pieces of ordnance. The work was nearly completed; the storming regiments that were to mount the beach were already told off; within as well as without the beleagured town it was felt that the crisis of the long-protracted struggle was at hand.

He

It was evening, cool but not chill. The sultry air of the streets had been tempered and purified by a gentle river breeze; the sun was going slowly down behind the hills of Clare, his beams dancing on the fast retreating tide that swept along their base; everything was

very still, and Kathleen Dillon sat once again by the window, enjoying the stillness and the golden sunlight on the river. She was very pale and very thin, and looked altogether so frail and weak that her sister had consented unwillingly to allow her the enjoyment of the only pleasure she knew. Mary sat near her, and in a remote corner of the room Shawn-na-coppal was crouched, motionless and silent, his eyes fixed on the delicate waxen features of his young mistress, and, doubtless, discovering more and more reasons for believing that she could be nothing else than one of his favourite angels. The conversation of the sisters was carried on regardless of the presence of the horse-boy. They talked of Kathleen's illness, now happily ended, of the pleasant days they were again to enjoy in the bright, green country beyond the brick chimney-stacks and gloomy walls, of their possible return to their old home when the war should be over; and Mary said nothing to darken the childish hopes of her sister, or to remind her of the dangers through which all these pleasures were to be reached.

Their pleasant chat was interrupted by a servant, who entered the 500m to announce to Miss Dillon that Mr. Plunkett desired to speak with her on urgent business. Mary had received many visits from her cousin since the eventful one described in the preceding chapter, but there had been no room for renewing the proposal which Mr. Plunkett had then made, nor any necessity for her to make known to him the resolution she had taken with regard to it. Untroubled by any misgivings, Mary rose from her seat, and consigning her sister to the care of Shawn, descended to meet her cousin.

The earnest and excited face of Plunkett announced to her that he had important tidings to communicate.

"I have come to make a last effort to save you, Mary," he began, abruptly; "the end of the siege is come. Another day will make everything ready for the final assault. Your sister is somewhat stronger-able, I hope, to travel. I have influence with Ireton and his officers: I tell you a secret which would cost me my life if revealed. Accept my assistance, and now, at the last hour, you are safe. I offer my protection on the same terms as before: say, will you accept it ?"

Mary could perceive that he spoke honestly when he told her that the decisive attack was about to be made on the city, but she shrank from giving to his proposal the answer she had prepared so long before.

"Speak, and at once," he urged, impatiently; "there is no more time to deliberate. To-morrow must be decided your fate, and perhaps my own. Promise that you will be mine, and even yet I will open a way for you through Ireton's cannon. Reject my suit, and I quit you instantly and for ever.”

The frightened girl thought of the sick child who sat by the window upstairs dreaming golden dreams of future happiness, of the pale, gentle face that smiled at the pictures those bright dreams presented, and of the soft, sweet voice that interpreted to her those pleasing visions. And then the phantom horrors of the coming carnage crowded upon her mind, and the picture of that face pallid

in death, and those bright tresses clotted with blood rose before her. She shuddered at the dread apparition, and pale as the shadowy forms it represented, she gasped in a whisper:

"I promise."

Lucas Plunkett grasped his cousin's trembling hand, and raised it eagerly to his lips.

'You shall never have cause to regret your decision," he exclaimed. "I leave you, to execute my engagement. Prepare your sister for the journey. When all is ready, I will return."

He kissed the quivering hand he held, and hurried from the house. Mary lingered in painful bewilderment in the empty room. Her tears flowed fast as she realised more and more clearly the step she had taken. She prayed earnestly for strength, and having recovered her self-possession, she mounted the stairs to the apartment of her sister.

Kathleen, supported by her half-witted attendant, was gazing eagerly from the window. When Mary entered, she turned towards her with an eager gesture:

"Come, Mary, come and see," she cried.

Mary hurried to the window to see in the street below a group of Ulster musketeers standing round a soldier of one of the northern troops of horse. She recognised the uniform of the trooper, and her heart beat wildly as she did so.

"Oh you can stay for a few minutes at least," pleaded one of the musketeers, who had grasped the trooper by the arm.

"Sit down on

this old wall here and let us hear how things go with you."

The companions of the musketeer joined him in his solicitations. Sundry tin flasks were produced, and the party adjourned to a heap of stones on the further side of the street to discuss their contents.

"Your health, Cathal," cried one of the trooper's friends. Maybe it's the last time I'd drink it. We'll have hot work to-morrow, they say. Come, my lad, in memory of by-gone days, sing us the song about the old general. It will do us good to hear it again, and will prepare us for the business of to-morrow."

It was vain to plead excuses. The trooper drained another flask, and sang to his attentive audience:

"Mourn, mourn for the dead, gallant sons of the north-
From Lough Oughter's lone waves hear that sad wail go forth!
The chief of Tirowen in death is laid low,

A traitor has murdered the brave Owen Roe.
He's slain! Oh, he's slain, that oft baffled the foe,
Benburb's dauntless victor-the brave Owen Roe!

'Loud swell round his pillow the waves of the lake,
But their voices shall never the sleeper awake;
Nor the war-trump he loved, nor the cannon's fierce roar
Shall sound in the ear of their great chieftain more.
He's slain! Oh, he's slain, that vanquished Monroe
By the glancing Blackwater-the brave Owen Roe!

"Hy-Niall bereaved! let thy tears, as the rain,
Besprinkle the earth o'er the head of the slain!
And valiant Tir-Connell! let grief cloud thy brow:
Who shall marshal thy columns to'victory now?
From the banks of Lough Neagh to the steep Castle Doe,
Ye may well weep the murder of brave Owen Roe.

"Cold and dead by his side in the gloom of the grave
Lie the high hopes his valour and victories gave.
O'er his country they flashed; 'twas a meteor light
That revealed to make hideous the gloom of her night.
Thou art dead! thou art dead! Woe to Ireland! woe!
She has lost her best champion in thee, Owen Roe.

"But enough-leave to women the tears of despair;
For the task of revenge let the soldier prepare;

Let this fell deed remind us of those that are past

Of Cashel the gory, and dark Mullaghmast.

Thou art fallen! thou art fallen! but the Saxon shall know
That not unavenged hast thou fallen, Owen Roe.

"One more struggle for life! one last blow for our own!
Rise, desolate land! bid the trumpet be blown

From Beinn Edair the black to the western sea,

Where'er beats a heart true to vengeance and thee.

Raise the Red Hand' on high, let the grave yawn below,
We'll revenge ere we follow thee, brave Owen Roe!"

The song was ended, the listeners maintained their attitude of eager attention, and there was silence for a few minutes.

Good-bye, boys," said the singer, starting up. "I have stayed too long. Captain MacDermott does not understand keeping late hours. I may have to pay the piper after supplying the music myself. Good-bye!"

He hurried down the street, but before he had gone many paces a hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a pair of wild eyes stared him in the face.

"Come with me! come with me!" cried the strange figure which confronted him. "Lady Kathleen sent me for you."

The soldier eyed Shawn-na-Coppal for an instant, and then with good-natured condescension to what he perceived to be the poor lad's infirmity, replied:

"Quick, then, lead on! Lady Kathleen must get through her business with me, if she doesn't wish to send me to the guardhouse."