"You have not had any breakfast, Shawn," said his mistress. "It makes little matter, lady, I can travel without it."

"Not on such a day as this. To the kitchen: bid them give you breakfast. I myself will see that the boat is ready."

It was a dismal, chilly morning. Clouds of mingled snow and rain drifted before the biting wind. They beat on the faces of the boatmen who sat waiting by the river's stairs, and even they, inured to every vicissitude of the seasons, shuddered beneath the icy touch. Scarcely had Mary assured herself that her order, had been obeyed when her messenger was at her side, eager to begone.

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My message is a secret," whispered the lady, as Shawn descended the steps.

The boy nodded, intelligently, and threw himself into the boat. The boatmen pushed off, and were already out in the rough water, when a hurried step was heard at the castle door.

"Hold, fellows!" cried the voice of Mr. Lucas Plunkett; "I am going on shore."

The oarsmen paused at the summons.

"Go on! go on!" urged Shawn. "Let him swim if he is in a hurry."

At a sign from their mistress they put back to the stairs.

"You here, Miss Dillon !" exclaimed Plunkett, as soon as he recognised the cloaked figure standing by the water's edge. "Pardon me if I have delayed your messengers. I go on shore to look after my horses. I must endeavour to place them beyond the reach of Major Ormsby's fingers."

The lady made no reply, and Plunkett took his seat in the boat. In a few moments it was tossing and toiling through the waves, and Mary Dillon turned shivering from the water's edge, thinking how distressing it would be to be made homeless on such a day.

"A cold day for a long journey, Shawn," said Plunkett to the half-clothed horse-boy near him.

"Cold enough," assented Shawn, sulkily, his teeth chattering painful evidence of the truth of the remark.

"You are a quick traveller; you will be able to get over a great many miles of road before evening."

་་

Perhaps," replied Shawn, evasively.

"Unless you fall in with some of O'Neill's rogues. They think little, I believe, of a poor body's life."

"They'll think as much of it as the Sassenach gentlemen do, at any rate," answered Shawn, significantly.

Plunkett was stung by the reply. It recalled to him disagreeable reminiscences, and he was silent till they reached the shore.

Springing from the boat as soon as it touched the beach, he beckoned the horse-boy to follow him.

"I have no time to stay," replied the lad; "I carry an important message, and must begone."

"I also have a message for you," said Plunkett. "As you are in such a hurry, I will accompany you a short distance on the way and tell it you as we go."

Shawn hardly concealed his dislike for Mr. Plunkett's companionship. As, however, he could not avoid it, he contented himself with remarking: "If you are coming with me, you will have to walk quick," and started with a speed which justified the necessity of this warning. They proceeded for some time at a speed which it cost Plunkett an effort to maintain, till at length, in a retired spot in the wood, Plun kett stopped, and, seizing his companion by the arm, said to him: "I will give you my message here, but you must stop to listen to it."

"I must not stay," cried Shawn, struggling fiercely to free himself; "there are lives depending on my haste."

"You shall even do it, my lad," returned Plunkett, composedly; "and, hark you, before I give you my commands I must know whither you are likely to carry them. I must know whither you are going." "Let me go! let me go!" pleaded the boy. "I cannot tell you." "We shall see," replied Plunkett, drawing a pistol from beneath his cloak. At sight of the formidable weapon the half-witted boy for a moment cowered and trembled with fear. But his devotedness finally overcame his terror, and he turned resolutely on his antagonist. His wandering and vacant look became steadied with angry determination, he clutched fiercely his formidable cudgel with his disengaged hand, and under the influence of the passion that possessed him looked so unsafe an antagonist that Plunkett determined not to practise further upon his fears.

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"You are a faithful messenger, Shawn," he said, approvingly, restoring the pistol to his belt. I meant but to try your fidelity. I know your errand already: you are going to Ballinasloe."

It was a guess, but the countenance of the boy showed that it was correct, and Plunkett now clearly understood the nature of Shawn's mission.

"You will see Captain MacDermott yourself, will you not?" he asked.

"Lady Mary bid me do so," answered the boy.

"Tell him thirty, remember thirty Scottish troopers will be here to-night. If he does not hurry, he may arrive to find us all swinging from the castle turrets."

He relaxed his hold, and Shawn was gone in an instant. He watched him until his uncouth figure had disappeared among the trees, and then retraced his steps along the pathway, muttering as he went: "If he comes thinking to meet but thirty, he will rue his triumph at Athliag-finn."

94

CHAPTER XVIII.

FAREWELLS.

"Farewell Erin! Farewell all
Who live to weep our fall."
Moore.

O'NEILL had forced a passage across the Shannon at the cost of much blood, and his army lay at Ballinasloe, reposing after its fatigues.. It was still what it had been for years, the most efficient of the Irish armies, yet it was now retiring to Ulster, there to be disbanded. The coalition of the Ormondists and Inchiquin had been powerless against the stratagetic skill of O'Neill during the campaign of the summer; he had maintained his troops for months in their midst, and in a great measure at their expense, and in his encounters with their forces, even when the odds in numbers were against him, he had been uniformly victorious. But the cold season was now come, and he dare not send his troops into winter quarters, surrounded as he was by active and exasperated enemies. Arms and money had begun to fail. He had no alternative but to retire into Ulster, and in that province, which was wholly devoted to him, await a turn in the tide of fortune.

It was the evening of the day on which Shawn-na-Coppal had been despatched to Ballinasloe. The town, as well as all the hamlets around it, was filled with troops. The streets were, however, comparatively empty. It was bitterly cold, and those whom duty did not force to encounter the chill blast remained within doors. The sentinels, wrapped in their heavy blankets, shivered at their posts. The very troop-horses seemed overpowered by the cold, the hair bristled on their skins, their eyes closed sleepily, and their heads nodded dreamily over their forage.

It was growing dark. The flames of the bivouac fires began to grow redder and redder as the sky behind them darkened, the streets became more and more silent, and night came on dark and chill, urging the few stragglers yet abroad to seek the warmth and glow of the ruddy fireside, when a small party of horsemen rode into the town. The leader was enveloped in a heavy cloak. A low, broad-brimmed hat covered his head, and at the same time partly concealed his features. Nothing about him indicated that he belonged to the military profession. He wore no arms; his horse was a light and graceful animal, much better fitted to be a lady's palfrey than a trooper's charger, and the rider sat in his saddle with the careless air of one whose attitudes are regulated by personal convenience rather than by the rules of military discipline. Behind him rode a few attendants who displayed a much more martial air than their master. The whole party was travel-stained and tired, and the military members of it, as

they passed up the principal street of the little town, ceased not to cast longing glances into the snug houses, where bright fires burned on cheerful hearths, and gay and laughing groups sat round about

them.

The leader rode on, apparently heedless of this display of tempting comforts. Occasionally, when passing some more pretending tenement, he raised his head, glanced for a moment at the building, and then again hid his face behind the turned-up collar of his coat. One of these hurried glances showed him a house much larger than any of its neighbours, from the roof of which a flag was flying, and in front of which a guard was stationed. He reined in his horse, and beckoning to him one of his attendants, a youth of graceful form and jaunty carriage, addressed an order to him in a low tone. The youth at once advanced towards the guard, and inquired in an accent to which his tongue had evidently been trained south of the Shannon, if these were the quarters of General O'Neill.

"Munsterman, they are," returned the sergeant of the guard, gruffly; "what would you with him ?"

"Nothing, gentle pikeman, nothing. My curiosity is amply satisfied; your courteous reply has set my mind at rest.'

"Take a fool's advice, friend," replied the sergeant: "don't exercise your wit where it puts your pate in peril."

"You counsel prudently, sage warrior," returned the other, mockingly. "At what school have you learned all this wisdom ?"

"Where the lessons are taught at the end of the lash," retorted the pikeman, now thoroughly roused. "Corporal, take this stripling to our lecture-room, and let him have a discourse on the impropriety of insulting the General's guard at its post."

The mandate would, in all likelihood, have been executed, had not the person by whom the youth had been despatched promptly interfered, and sharply reproving his attendant for his unseasonable pleasantry, apologised to the offended soldier and begged him to request for him an interview with General O'Neill. The sergeant, mollified by the rebuke administered to his insulter, and somewhat impressed by the courtly address of the stranger, showed himself disposed to comply with this request.

"Say that a messenger from Galway craves an audience."

The sergeant retired, and in a few minutes returned and bade the stranger follow him. He led the way through a dimly-lighted hall into a room, where, alone at a small table, sat the Ulster General, poring over a heap of papers. He raised his head as his visitor entered, and the light of the lamp beside him showed a face that wore a look of deep dejection and distress, a brow on which sorrow had traced premature furrows, a mouth to the lines of which a constant struggle with adverse fortune had given a rigidity that forbade familiarity even while it excited sympathy.

"You bring a message from the Nuncio," said O'Neill, as soon as the orderly had closed the door; "what is its import ?"

"No, not a message from the Nuncio—not a message from prince or potentate of this world, but a message from the Church to her

unworthy son-a rebuke, in the name of Religion, to the lukewarm defender of her rights."

The cloak fell from about the shoulders of the speaker, and the spare form, pale features, and flashing eyes of Rinuccini confronted O'Neill.

"Welcome! thrice welcome, most reverend lord, on whatever errand you come," said O'Neill, kissing on bended knee the jewel on the prelate's finger. "It grieveth me that I can but poorly provide for your Grace's accommodation. Permit me, however, to procure such refreshment as our camp can boast."

"Stay !" cried the prelate, arresting O'Neill's hand upon the bell. "For many reasons, I would not have it known that I have made this journey. Any lodging will satisfy me; and, for refreshment, I will not any. I am not of those with whom personal convenience takes precedence of the interests of the Church."

"I understand your Grace's meaning," replied O'Neill, sadly; "but it serves no good purpose to discuss now the subjects to which you allude-the past cannot be mended."

"Hear me, Owen O'Neill," said the Bishop, with energy. "The fate of this country and of this Church hangs upon your decision now. Leave Munster in the possession of Ormonde, Inchiquin, and their despicable faction, and before those hills grow green with the verdure of spring, there will not be room for you or for me in Ireland. You have yet an army able to cope with theirs. One vigorous blow might place Kilkenny in our hands. Strike while there is yet time. If you refuse or hesitate, we are both undone."

The soldier listened unmoved to the enthusiastic words of the prelate only the shade of dejection deepened on his face.

"I have weighed the chances," he answered, calmly. "I know the capabilities of my men and the strength of my foes. To follow your Grace's plan would but hasten the ruin it is your purpose to avert." "You will not, then, make the trial ?"

"It would be madness to do it."

"My journey has been in vain," said the prelate, with trembling voice, vainly endeavouring to suppress the tokens of his disappoint"Farewell, Hope! and soon, farewell, Ireland! O'Neill, tomorrow morning we part, never to meet again."

"You will abandon us?"

"As soon as the San Pietro can give her sails to the wind, I will quit this wretched land where I have wasted strength and fortune, and have had but ingratitude and insult in return."

We

"Believe not, my Lord Archbishop, that we are ungrateful. have the deepest sense of your generosity to our unfortunate people, and we would express the feeling at any cost short of our own absolute ruin."

"Express !" retorted the prelate, scornfully; "yes, it has been well expressed! My private fortune has been expended on the wants of the nation, and in return my personal effects have been seized and confiscated. My best energies have been exhausted in the attempt to free you from degradation and slavery; and my servants are now