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THE CHANCES OF WAR.

BY A. WHITELOCK.

CHAPTER XXI.

THE CHAMBER OF DEATH.

"Oh! wearily the night moaned on-
Oh! wearily dawned the light-
Oh! wearily the watcher looked,
Upon that wretched night."
I. S. Varian.

It is painful to keep vigil by the side of the dead, doubly painful when the couch by which we watch bears a form that we have loved through life. It is hard to see the lips that have lavished a thousand endearments upon us set in pale rigidity, never to open again; to see the eyes that have looked love into our own, dimmed and glassy, closed to the world which they made bright for us; to see the hand that fondled us so often lie stiff and cold upon the white coverlet, not thrilled into motion by our own impassioned clasp. We find it almost impossible to realise the awful fact that all now remaining of the being we have venerated, loved, idolised for years, is a mass of senseless clay, indifferent to our caresses as to our sorrow. To one who has not felt it no effort of imagination can picture the overwhelming loneliness which seizes upon the heart by the death-couch of those we have loved, the unutterable sense of separation which benumbs the soul in the icy presence of the cherished dead. To think that we may call aloud, and strain our voices till they crack, but that the ears into which we have poured the secrets of our life's joys and sorrows shall hear us no more! To think that they are gone from us on whom we have ever leaned, and that now we must plod on our desolate path alone! We cannot believe it, we turn away, try to shut out the painful vision that would force itself upon us, and in tumultuous grief seek to dull the keen sense of our bereavement.

Such is, at least, the usual resource to which sorrowing affection betakes itself in presence of the dull clay from which death has stolen the spirit that made it man. But not with such a grief was Arthur Dillon mourned in the chamber where he lay. Kathleen's strange misgivings had prepared her for the blow that had fallen upon them, and she received it with a subdued, despairing sorrow when it came. She sat beside the couch on which the body of her father lay. Her long hair streamed in bright waves over the velvet pall, bright and shining as the emblazoning on the funereal draperies; she clasped in hers the cold hand of the dead man; at intervals she touched with her lips the white fingers she held within her own, and then gave utterance to her grief in a low, plaintive cry of anguish more pitiful than the wildest burst of sorrow.

There was no one to offer comfort to the helpless little mourner. Her sister sat near her, absorbed in her own grief, heedless for once

of Kathleen's distress. She had chosen to watch by her father's body, and she would admit no one but her sister to share her vigil. For hours she had been sitting motionless by the bedside, oppressed by an affliction too great for tears or wailings to express. Yet all her thoughts were not concentrated on her own bereavement. Even here, within the chamber of death, the question rose to her mind: "what had become of those who had attempted their deliverance?" She did not know the full details of the tragedy of the morning. The sounds of the combat on shore had been borne faintly to her ears, and soon after, the boat in which her father had quitted the castle returned bearing his lifeless body. It was manned by the troopers of the Parliament. But they offered insult or violence to no one. They departed as they came, leaving it to Lucas Plunkett, who accompanied them, to explain, as he chose, to the orphan girls the circumstances of their father's murder.

She could not now recall the confused story poured into her ear during the first moments of her sorrow. She could recollect that a detachment of Irish horse had come to their assistance; that her father had endeavoured to give them warning of an ambuscade that waited for them, and that he had lost his life in the attempt. What had been the fate of the Irish she had not heard, nor had she then stayed to inquire. But now, in the dread silence of that lonely room, the thought came to distract her in her mourning. What had befallen the men who had come to their rescue? They had not won the day. The Parliamentarians had not quitted their bivouac of the night before; she had seen them come and go when the engagement was over, and from the spot where she sat, she could even now see their watch-fires gleaming through the trees. Had other lives, then, besides this precious one been sacrificed in their defence? Had the generous soldier who so promptly obeyed her request perished with the rest? Had she summoned him to an inglorious death-to be shot from behind a hedge by a hidden enemy? Had he died a stranger in a strange land, for her deliverance, and at her entreaty? As often as she hid her face in her hands and shut out the absorbing vision of the pallid form that lay before her, these questions rose to her mind. But there was no one who could give an answer to them. Her cousin had been absent for hours, she knew not where, and none of the domestics would venture on shore to make inquiries; the halfwitted horseboy who perhaps would have undertaken even this service, she had not seen since he departed on the errand which had resulted so fatally.

It was

growing dark, the tall candles that blazed round the bier began to cast a stronger light on the rough wainscoting of the room, and to lend a ghastlier pallor to the features of the dead man, when the door opened noiselessly, and Lucas Plunkett, with soft step, approached the spot where Mary was sitting.

"Pardon me, Miss Dillon," he began, in his mildest and most sympathetic tones, "if I intrude upon your grief. Nothing but the most urgent necessity could force me to disturb you at this moment with the mention of matters which must increase your distress."

"Do not fear to speak, sir," returned the lady, sadly; "it will be difficult to add to our sorrows.'

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"It has become my duty now," pursued Plunkett, "to provide for your safety and that of your sister; that duty obliges me to make immediate arrangements for Mr. Dillon's funeral, and to convey you to a place of greater safety than Duneevin."

Kathleen caught the words, and clinging to her dead father's hand, exclaimed with passionate sobs:

"No, no! he shall not leave us."

"Alas! that is not he any longer, Kathleen," said Plunkett, pointing to the lifeless figure.

"Oh! it is very like him," sobbed the child. "You will not take him away."

"We are grateful for the kindness which prompts you to charge yourself with our protection, Mr. Plunkett," Mary interposed," and will appeal to it when we stand in need of it. For the present, we are safe within these walls. My father's assassins show no disposition to molest us, and we have no other enemy to fear. There is nothing to prevent us from paying becoming honour to his remains."

There was a quiet air of determined authority in her words which showed that the change which had made her fatherless had developed in her the energy of a strong and decided character.

"You must not remain here," urged Plunkett. "By to-morrow evening O'Neill's savage bands may encamp in yonder woods. I shudder to think of you falling into their hands. You must quit Duneevin for a time. Major Ormsby promises to provide us with an escort through the disturbed border of the Pale. Once beyond Annally, friends will welcome us at every stage, and in my home you will be secure from rebel Scots and rebel Irish alike."

"Again I thank you for your kindness," returned Mary, "but must decline to profit by it at this moment. I do not dread the dangers you speak of. We have little cause for confidence in Major Ormsby, and O'Neill's followers have surely not deserved, from us at least, the title of savages."

"You know them not," he answered, "they have the savage's thirst for plunder and for blood; and I have reason to know that upon their arrival here their fiercest and most vengeful instincts will be called into full play."

"We have done nothing to provoke their hatred, and need not therefore dread it. In the defeat of their comrades we have had no share; they have nothing else to avenge."

"You do not know how stands the case," whispered Plunkett. "The Parliamentarians have captured a few of the hobellers; as they cannot encumber themselves with the prisoners on their march, they will execute them before they leave. When O'Neill's followers hear this news, it will fare ill with the Sassenachs who happen to be in the vicinity. Do you understand now the risk you run by remaining here."

The face of the lady grew deadly pale at this announcement. Plunkett attributed this change of countenance to the terror his words

inspired. He was deceived. After a moment's silence, she answered calmly:

"I am persuaded, that not even on such provocation would O'Neill offer insult or injury to two unprotected girls. In any case, I had rather trust myself to his fury than to Major Ormsby's compassion. I will not quit Duneevin."

"Your better sense deserts you, Miss Dillon," said Plunkett, impatiently. "You oblige me to use an authority which I would fain not produce at this moment. With his last words your father entrusted you to me. I would willingly defer in everything to your wishes, but the duties of this sacred trust oblige me to provide for your safety, even at the risk of incurring your displeasure."

“And you think to fulfil my father's last wish by tearing us from his grave and giving us up to the keeping of his murderers."

"You employ harsh language, Miss Dillon, to describe the service I would do you. I feel that I am but discharging a sacred duty in insisting that you shall quit this place. I will not pain you any further by this conversation which is equally disagreeable to us both. I will leave you and go to make preparations for the funeral ceremonies, and for the journey which we shall begin immediately after."

With these words Plunkett withdrew. Mary Dillon had maintained a dignified calmness during the interview; but her firmness deserted her as the door closed behind her new guardian. The sense of her helplessness overpowered her; she threw herself on her knees, and with a flood of bitter tears bewailed the loss of him who lay before her, unconscious of her distress and insensible to her lamentations. A long time she maintained this prostrate attitude, not noting how the night gathered dark and murky outside, and how the wind rose in sobbing gusts sweeping over the lake as if charged with the wailings of the many houses of mourning it had passed over on its evening journey. At length she was roused by a gentle tugging at her robe, and turning she beheld Shawn-na-Coppal crouching on his knees by her side. His shaggy hair, damped by the rain, hung in clotted masses round his face, and his scanty clothing, saturated with water, stuck close to his shivering frame. His face was pale as her own, and his eyes, as they were raised to hers, had in them that look of helpless pleading peculiar to the distress of the half-witted. "Lady!" he whispered, in a choking voice, "they are going to shoot him!"

"Whom?" asked his mistress, with a shudder.

"Him-Captain MacDermott," replied the boy, hoarsely. "I saw him dragged into the farmyard with his broken arm hanging by his side. They told him he was to be tried. But it is settled. I listened when he passed. I heard them say that he must be shot, they cannot take him with them."

The words of the simpleton verified a painful presentiment that had haunted Mary's mind since her interview with her cousin. She sickened at the prospect of another scene of blood, wildly pressed her hands to her head to crush the hideous picture from her brain,

and sank into a chair by the bedside. Her weakness lasted only for a moment. When she turned again to her faithful attendant her pale features wore a fixed and resolute look betraying nothing of the agony of her mind.

"He shall not die," she said, with set lips.

The horseboy gazed with perplexed and wondering stare at his mistress.

66

How came you hither ?" she asked, in a low whisper. "I paddled over in a boat I found on the beach."

"Could you guide it back again, think you?"

"Easily, lady. The wind blows towards the shore."

"Come with me then. Kathleen," she whispered, bending over her sister, "will you keep watch alone for a short time? You will not be afraid to remain here by yourself?"

"I shall not be alone," answered the child. "He will be with me."

Mary kissed the child's pale cheek and left the room. At the door she left Shawn standing alone in the darkness; but a few minutes later she returned to him wrapped in a long, heavy mantle, such as was worn by the peasant girls of the time. She led the way to the water stairs. The wind was high, and the white crests of the waves glistened threateningly far out in the darkness. She seated herself in the boat and motioned to her docile companion to take his place in the stern.

"What am I to do, lady ?" asked the bewildered boy.

"Push off, and make straight for the spot where yonder fires are burning."

A few strokes of the paddle sent the boat out into the waves. It was caught up by the strong east wind, and in its sturdy arms was borne rapidly towards the shore.

CHAPTER XXII.

TRIED FOR LIFE.

"And should this last dark chance befall,

Even that shall welcome be;

In death I'll love thee best of all,
A cuisle geal mo chroidhe!"
Irish Ballad.

It is somewhat at variance with the modern rules of war that prisoners taken in battle should undergo trial by court-martial. Armed opposi tion to a public cause, when openly professed and widely supported, has ceased to be considered an indictable offence. No tribunal is appointed to judge it; there is no hostility against the captive any more than against the dead. But in the civil dissensions with which Ireland was torn asunder during the seventeenth century, this etiquette of war was neither so clearly defined nor so nicely observed. Many

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