Hastily summoning the bishop, he ushered him into the chamber of the dying man, and left them alone together. The interview lasted but a few minutes. At the end of that time the door opened, the bishop re-appeared, and beckoned into the room O'Neill's more immediate relatives. Lights were brought, the assistants prostrated themselves in prayer, and the mystic ceremonies with which the Catholic Church prepares the soul for its passage into eternity were solemnly performed. The voice of the officiating prelate trembled. perceptibly as he pronounced the words of the awful rite; he was the bosom friend, and had been the companion-in-arms, of the dying man. For him that poor, panting sufferer had once defied and threatened the Supreme Council in their own assembly room; they had attempted to overawe him into a policy which he believed fatal to Ireland, and O'Neill bade them desist, on peril of incurring his enmity. Poor, poor, tormented, quivering frame! How often he had seen it in its bright clothing of steel lead the way through the storm of battle for the stout soldiers of Tir-Owen! How often he had seen those halfclosed glassy eyes burn with the fierce excitement of the absorbing game where life was staked on the result, and that brow, contracted now with the agonies of death, beam bright and unruffled amid the tumult of angry debates, and the gloom of despairing counsels. A modern philosopher will have it that striking contrasts provoke mirth —it may be so, but there are occasions when they excite sorrow; the contrasts which here occurred to the mind of Emer MacMahon made his voice stick painfully in his throat, and the tears rise to his eyes.

The impressive rite was ended at length, the dying man lay motionless upon his couch absorbed in the dread thoughts which the ceremony just concluded suggested. His breathing became, each moment, more laboured and painful, his features more ghastly pale. At intervals a low moaning sound forced from him by the tortures he underwent escaped his lips, and then he faintly uttered the Redeemer's name, and gently prayed that his impatience might be forgiven. A lady with streaming eyes and throbbing bosom bent over his couch, and softly whispered his name. At the sound of her voice, the sufferer struggled to raise his unnerved arm to clasp in his the tender hand that wiped the death sweat from his brow.

"My own poor Rose," he murmured, with a painful effort, "grieve not for me. It is God's will; it is for the best. It troubles me to leave you thus without a home in the land where I had thought to make you a princess. When the worst happens, as happen it will, our son Henry will seek a refuge for you in Spain or in Italy. Say that you are the wife of the defender of Arras, and at the court of King Philip you will be received with honour. I suffer greatly, Rose. Pray that I may bear up to the end!"

Alas, poor sufferer. How well for him that he was not vouchsafed a glimpse into the near future! How it would have added to the agony he endured to know that the gallant son, to whose care he entrusted his weeping wife, was soon to die an ignominious death by order of the man he had lately delivered at Derry from the clutches of his foes. The decree is merciful which debars us from the know

ledge of events to come. It is a dispensation which, if it lessens th sum of our joys, materially abridges the catalogue of our sorrows.

the

Again there was silence in the sick room, long and distressing silenc broken only by the hard breathing of the dying man and the soft ejaculated prayers of the assistants. They listened with bowed head to the struggle which life was making to maintain itself in that worn out frame, the choking sounds in the throat, the long drawn respiraa tion, the feeble, half-repressed moan of pain. Death was winning the victory, and winning it fast, and they thought they were not to heal. again the voice of his victim. Yet, before the close of the mortal struggle, the vanquished soldier contrived to shake off for a brief moment the cold clasp of his foe. Concentrating his failing energies in a supreme effort, the dying chief raised himself unaided from his pillow.

"Bear witness all!" he cried, in a hoarse voice, which startled] the listeners, "that I die in the faith of Christ, true to my mother, the Catholic Church, and true to my country, Ireland. Take my last message to my gallant soldiers. Say that, dying, in my latest thoughts I thought of them. Oh, if they might but conquer yet! My God, if it might be-Ireland, my country! Jesus! Mary

It was his last effort for the faith and the country he had loved and served. His voice failed, his eyelids slowly closed, he fell back upon his pillow, and with the sweet name of heaven's gentle Queen, whom his soldier's heart had chivalrously loved in life, upon his lips, he died.

Adjoining Lough Oughter lies another lake of the same chain, containing a large island which has received the name "Trinity Island," from an ancient monastery which stands upon it. Towards this venerable pile, which was not then a ruin, as it is to-day, a barge, draped in black, was rowed on the morning of the second day following the events just described. When the vessel touched the shore, a simple coffin, on which were inscribed the words: "Owen MacArt O'Neill," was lifted out of it, and carried towards the church of the monastery. The scanty procession of mourners was received at the door by a double file of monks; the coffin was laid in front of the altar, and the holy brotherhood with chant and prayer supplicated heaven for rest to the soul of the departed chieftain.

The sacred rite was ended, the last sad note of the concluding psalm had died away in the vaulted roof, when a soldier who had stood by the bier during the ceremony undid the fastenings and raised the lid of the coffin. Within the rough shell lay the body of Owen Roe, encased in the glittering armour which had been the vesture he loved best, upon his head his plumed and richly-plated helmet, and by his side his golden-hilted sword. His rigid features showed even in death the impress of the great mind whose workings they had depicted in life; even yet were reflected in them the vast designs and high resolves matured within that once busy brain—now at rest for ever.

*The details of O'Neill's funeral have been borrowed from local tradition, rather than from the more authentic narratives of approved historians.

The spectators gazed upon the pallid, icy countenance of the ead chieftain with mingled awe and sorrow. After a long last istful look on the face of the dead, the soldier who had uncovered replaced the coffin lid, and murmured as he did so: "In thee Ireand has lost the greatest of her children."

Many generations have since come and gone; had the panegyric of Owen O'Neill to be preached to-day, it might still be done in these simple words.

We may not tell where the coffin was laid. The tourist who visits Trinity Island will observe heaps of clay and stones piled up within the chancel of the ruined abbey church. These mounds have been thrown up by the peasant antiquarians of the neighbourhood in their search for the grave of Owen Roe. Diligent as their efforts have been, the dust of the last of Tir-Owen's famous leaders yet remains undiscoved and undisturbed.

FOR Several months before the advance of General Ireton on Limerick the utmost terror and confusion prevailed in and around the city. The story of the cruel deeds done in Drogheda and Wexford was but too well known, and the inhabitants of Limerick had no reason to expect that the generals of the Parliament would be more merciful to them than they had been to their fellow-countrymen in the east and south-east. The leaders who guided the councils of the city prepared themselves for a desperate resistance. Tempting offers were made to allure them from the cause to which they adhered, but firm in their allegiance to the Church which they falsely identified with allegiance to Charles II., they resisted the advances of the rebel generals, and resolved to hold their city for the king. Devoted though they were to the royal cause, they refused to admit within their walls the lieutenant of the sovereign, or to receive the garrison which he pressed them to accept. They had experienced, to the full, the duplicity of the Marquis of Ormonde, and they declined to trust him further. They would hold their town for King Charles, but they would admit to their aid only the Ulstermen whom Hugh O'Neill commanded, and they would serve under no other governor than Hugh O'Neill himself. Events showed that the confidence of the citizens in the Ulster troops and in the Ulster general was not misplaced. Ormonde lingered for a time by the banks of the Shannon in the hope that the terrors of the impending siege would overcome the prejudices against him, but no threatened danger from the victorious Parliamentarians could beget confidence in Ormonde. The Deputy understood at length that his hopes were unfounded. He retired to Galway and left the city and its defenders to their fate.

The rumoured approach of General Ireton's army, as well as th

presence of a large force of irregular troops, indifferently controlled by the laws of military discipline, made the environs of Limerick an undesirable place of abode. A great number of the inhabitants of the farmsteads and mansions that lay without the city took refuge, from friends and foes alike, within the walls. There was but scanty accommodation for the increased population, and destitution and disease speedily made its appearance in the overcrowded city.

Amongst the families that thus sought shelter from the dangers created by approaching war was one in which the course of our story leads us to take a special interest. It consisted of a lady of mature years, and her nieces, Mary and Kathleen Dillon. They inhabited a pleasant cottage which overlooked the spot where the Shannon divides its waters to encircle the island on which stands the portion of Limerick called the "English Town." They lived a retired and secluded life, and saw little of the gay society which the great political events then taking place assembled in Limerick. It was a matter of frequent regret to the old lady that the elder of her nieces was debarred from taking in society the prominent place for which she was so well fitted. But the younger of the two sisters was a confirmed invalid, and the elder was her constant nurse and attendant. Besides, the shadow of a great domestic calamity overhung the family. Rarely was allusion made in the little household to this calamity, but the gloom which it had created was ever palpably and oppressively present to all, though no one spoke of, or pretended to notice the ominous shadow.

The change from her pleasant home in the green fields, by the side of the bright river that came pleasantly rolling down over the rocks of the ford, to the dark, narrow streets of the city, was a trying change for the sick girl. Looking from the window of the cottage, shaded by roses and honeysuckle, she could recognise in the sparkling and foaming waters that were hurrying past to the sea the old friends whose gambols had pleased her eye, and whose voices, soft or angry, had soothed her ear-the familiar friends who had been the companions of the many solitary hours of her childhood. They were faithful still. They followed her from the spot where she had learned to understand their language, and be amused by their frolics. They came to bring her news of her old home. They had heard all the secrets of the place from the winds, who had now free entrance at the open windows, and who met there together at night, and held their revels in the dark rooms and deserted passages of the old castle. She was never tired of listening to the stories this neverending relay of messengers told in a language intelligible only to herself. This sweet companionship was now at an end. She was shut in between high gloomy walls, with dingy roofs and dismal chimney-stacks on all sides. True, she could still hear the voice of the waters as they made their way at ebb tide over the reef that stretches across the river below the Castle of King John; but the sound of their voice there was not what it had been; it was a hoarse, muffled sound of impatience, and anger; they did not speak to her or seem to know of her existence, they

merely complained fretfully, as they hurried on, that they had been left behind when the great tide had gone back again to the sea. There was, too, a narrow opening in the masses of dull red brick that shut her in, and through this she could catch a glimpse of the broad stream that stretched like a yellow causeway down to the woods of Tervoe, and she could see the rock Carrigogunnel rise precipitously out of the trees, crowned with the dark towers of O'Brien's impregnable castle. But it was no longer the river she had known. The stream was muddy and discoloured, it swelled and sank with the rising and falling of the sea outside; when the channel was filled, it was bordered by a fringe of rank, unsightly reeds, when the tide receded, long mounds of slimy mud formed a range of unsightly embankments along the course of the filthy stream. It was not the Shannon as she had known and loved it. She sat by the window and looked, not out upon that narrow vista of land and water, visible between the brick walls, but down into the narrow street alive with the bustle of warlike preparations.

Few of our readers will have felt those miseries which fall to the lot of the civilian portion of the population during the days that precede the investment of a city by a hostile army. To those who have not had it we shall not wish such an experience. An undefined fear, more intolerable than sense of present danger, is the feeling of the time. They know that the possession of their homes is soon to be disputed with them by a foe, who considers himself likely to conquer in the struggle. They know that he is at hand, though they have no distinct indications of his presence. They strain their eyes and their ears to catch a glimpse of arms or banners, or moving masses of men on the hills far away. Their own military defenders come and go with ceaseless and apparently purposeless activity; heavy guns are dragged about the streets; munition waggons rumble along after them; bodies of soldiers are marched to and fro, as if it was impossible to determine the suitable position for them; and, most ominous sign of all, litters are borne to certain points of the wall, and ranges of beds prepared in some building near at hand. The puzzled townsmen look on bewildered, and the soldiers as they pass cast contemptuous glances at them, and assume an intelligent air which says plainer than words, "It perplexes you, but we understand it all;" and then go on, leaving them to their doubts and guesses, and to the alarming rumours with which they terrify one another. At last some incident occurs which gives everyone an insight into the tactics of the prime movers in the game, and the doubt and suspense are at an end.

The invalid of the little household was at her accustomed post by the window, gazing down into the street. She had this evening sat there much longer than was her custom, for, this evening, the monotony of her only amusement was broken in upon. An unusual commotion was visible in the narrow thoroughfare, and, though night was coming on, the excitement seemed to increase every moment. The citizens had been in hourly expectation of hearing that the outposts thrown forward by the Governor on the road by which Ireton