him out of my way. He reeled and fell in the gutter. When he turned his face to the light, I could see that it was covered with the lurid spots which showed that his frenzy was one of which he was never to be cured. The stricken wretch lay where he fell, and in his northern gibberish kept calling for help. The townsfolk fled away from him; but before I reached the end of the street, I saw some of his savage comrades who chanced to come up, lift him and carry him away, I dare say to the pest-house."

The heart of the listener sickened at the story; she had a deep interest in these poor northern troopers. Savage they might be to others, but courteous and chivalrous they had been to her. At the mention of the dying agonies of the plague-stricken Ulsterman, she thought of the scene in the farmyard on that gloomy night years ago. She saw again the figure of one of those rude horsemen stretched upon the muddy earth, the life-blood gushing from his breast. She heard again the half-choked words in which he struggled to express his love, undying even then, to his country and to his chief. It all came back vividly upon her, and despite her dread of the plague, she wished she had been by the side of his comrade, when, smitten by its breath, he lay helpless and dying in the streets of a strange city.

It certainly was not Plunkett's purpose to excite remembrances and reflections like these, though he had, doubtless, his own reasons for introducing the anecdote of his meeting with the Ulsterman. As if he divined whither her thoughts wandered, he proceeded to recall them to the difficulties of her own situation.

"I do not tell you all this, Mary," he said, in the same calm tone, "to alarm you, but to convince you that there is no time to be lost. You must leave the city at once, if you do not wish to see it, as it soon will be, half shambles, half charnel-house. Escape is still possible, possible-at least, if I am to be your guide. Clare is still held by Castlehaven, and through his lines we may pass unmolested. The Galway bank of the Shannon is in Coote's possession; he is paying off an old debt he owes Clanrickarde; but even in the midst of Coote's bandits I can promise you security. Only give me the right to be your protector, and you may laugh at the dangers which make every one about you tremble."

"Does not our utter helplessness give you right sufficient? What would you more ?"

"The right you said should then be mine when you understood that your duty to those you loved required you to become the wife of Lucas Plunkett. You remember the promise ?"

Ah! so it was for this he had been painting the picture which had terrified her to excite her fears for herself and for that life which he knew she loved better than her own, and then take advantage of her distress to force his suit upon her. It was ungenerous, it was unmanly. She felt hurt and ill-used, and a blush of indignation crimsoned her pale face. Poor girl! she did not know the character she had to deal with. But a glance at those hard, stony features, and those cold, glittering eyes which watched the workings of her countenance, helped her to understand it. It showed her in those

impassible features no trace of any feeling accessible to her prayers, or capable of being touched by her misery. She could read in the calm, confident glance of those dark eyes an expression of assured triumph-a look which told her that Lucas Plunkett had it in his power to torture her into consent, and that he would use his advantage. Her virtuous indignation gave way to despair, and, covering her face with her hands, she abandoned herself to a violent burst of grief.

"Oh! be generous, be generous," she moaned, at length, lifting her streaming eyes to her cousin's face. "Ask any other price for your kindness, and you shall have it."

"Let me speak plainly, Mary," said Plunkett, a little irritated by a display of emotion not at all flattering to him. "I am not of a romantic turn, and I know not how to appreciate knightly generosity. But this I know, you were torn from me once before on a journey like that now before us. I will not be befooled again. The marauder who carried you away has expiated the deed, and that fully. But there may be those who would do the same again. Before we leave this city, you shall be mine. If you would be delivered from infamy and death, and would spare your helpless sister the horrors of the approaching siege, which she can never survive, consent to become my wife. I will be satisfied with your promise, and will wait better days for its fulfilment. If you are resolved to sacrifice your own life and honour, and to see the feeble child who depends on you, poisoned by the deadly air of these pestilential streets-refuse. I leave the decision of her fate and your own wholly in your hands."

There was no excitement in Mr. Plunkett's manner; he could afford to be phlegmatic. He was well assured that the wretched girl's affection for her sister would, in the end, overcome her obstinacy. He had declared his intentions with business-like plainness, and in a manner which left no room for the hope that he would change his resolution.

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"I await your answer, Mary," he said, after a considerable pause, during which Mary's sobs had been the only sound audible in the

room.

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Oh, cousin Plunkett!" cried the afflicted girl, throwing herself on her knees before him, "have pity! spare me! I cannot do it! I could not give you my heart, do not ask my hand! Urge me no further, I implore you. Spare me a life of misery. I am still young; I could not live in wretchedness so long. You will not insist? You will not be so cruel ?"

Poor simpleton! How much she was deceived! Men can be cruel to inhumanity when their passions are roused, and cowards can carry cruelty farther than other men. Mr. Plunkett had now declared his plans; gentleness and delicacy could no longer suit his purpose, and it was, therefore, superfluous to make use of them.

"You waste your pathetic speeches on such a dull subject as I am, my dear Mary," he replied. "This pretty language about hearts and hands sounds very well, but for such phrases I have no understanding. I do not relish poetry; an answer in homely prose suits me better.

Perhaps what you would say is this: I have applied too late; what I ask is already bestowed upon another."

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Oh, no! It is not so, indeed it is not," murmured Mary. "Pardon me. I began to think you might have rewarded the gallantry of the knight who was your champion in your last dilemma by the prize for which I strive. His foolhardiness, perhaps, deserved it better that my mere common-sense way of doing things. It may gratify you to know that he has been able to console himself for the privation in the society of those disloyal beauties of the north. It would, methinks, be difficult to tempt him hither now to the rescue of distressed damsels."

The unmanly taunt cut deep; it was more than all Mary's firmness, backed by all her pride, could do to conceal the anguish it caused. Perhaps, too, it shut out one last faint hope, which, almost unknown to her, had been fluttering round her in her distress, bidding her resist a little longer. She bowed her head at her cousin's feet, and her tears flowed fast and bitter.

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"Why will you thus torment yourself?" asked the considerate Plunkett. 'Let me have a plain, brief answer. Make me your protector devoted to your happiness, eager to fulfil your every wish; or, dismiss me from your presence for ever. One word will suffice for either purpose.

"For God's sake allow me a little time," pleaded the poor girl, now completely bewildered by her distress. "My mind wanders, and I cannot think. Be merciful, and do not try me further now.”

"Be it as you say," responded Plunkett, magnanimously. "You shall have leisure to frame your answer. To-morrow, at this hour, I will come to learn your decision. Till then, adieu.”

It was his intention that his leave-taking should show him still inflexible in his purpose. In this he gained his object.

Bewildered and stupified by the ordeal through which she had passed, Mary Dillon remained kneeling on the floor long after her suitor had quitted the house. Gradually her self-possession returned, and the dread alternative offered her rose before her, asking for a decision. Prolonged and violent was the conflict. She did not love him, and she never could. She would not sacrifice to his plans, whatever they were, all that remained to her of life. It would be a hardship to be forced to give her hand to one whom she regarded with indifference and nothing more; but to be allied for life to a nature such as his had proved itself to be, would be agony unendurable. No, no, better death by sword or plague than life in such companionship. She would reject his proffered aid, and in indignant and scornful words-which she there and then selected-she would upbraid him with his baseness, and bid him see her no more.

But scarcely had these valiant resolves been formed, when there came before her the image of a thin, pale face, thinner, she thought, and paler now than it had been of old-a thin, pale face laid upon a pillow strewn with golden hair; and there sounded in her ear the tones of a low, weak voice, lower, it seemed to her, and weaker than

it once had been, and at the sight of that face and the sound of that voice her proud projects were overthrown.

"Could I live to see you die, Kathleen, and know that sacrifice of mine might have saved you? When should I forgive myself? What would be my remorse till my dying hour? Kathleen, you shall be saved, cost what it may to me. You shall live, and I shall have at least one solace in my misery. Gentle mother, you left her to my charge. I will fulfil my trust. Look down upon us from your peaceful rest in heaven, and pray for us your children. And thou, O Queen of Sorrows, my mother too, who hast known the agony of a breaking heart, pity thy poor child's distress, and aid me to accomplish the sacrifice I promise."

She rose from her prayer, dried the tears from her face, and with a firm step entered the room where her sister lay. The curtains were still drawn; only a subdued, softened light found its way into the

room.

"How fares my Kathleen this morning?" asked Mary, stooping to kiss the brow which shone so white and marble-like above the bright blue eyes that flashed a welcome to her as she came in.

"You will not be frightened, Mary," replied the child in her soft, quiet voice, "if I tell you that I am weaker, just a little weaker, than usual. I did not sleep last night. The air seemed thick and heavy, and I could not breathe it. There is, I am sure one of those hateful fogs upon the river. There were no fogs on our own Shannon long ago. Why have we them so often here? Do you remember, poor old nurse used to tell us that fogs were the breath of giants who lived down under the water? I wonder how all the giants found their way down here;" and the gentle child tried to be cheerful and smiled at her own forced pleasantry. "Do not draw the curtains, Mary dear, if you please. I do not care for the bright light to-day, and you need not arrange the sofa by the window. I will rest here."

Poor Kathleen! when she begged to forego the sunlight and her seat by the window, she must have lost her relish for enjoyment.

"You are ill, Kathleen," said Mary; "the air of these narrow streets is stifling you. But we will quit them soon, and you shall have a bright sky, and green trees, and flowers again. We shall have a nice journey, and who knows but we may see our dear old home on the way. I will not tell you more now. This news ought to be enough to make you well. Get strong-able for a long, pleasant ride, and then I will tell you more good news as a reward."

"I will try, Mary dear," said Kathleen, with her own quiet smile, "if it was only for your sake."

care.

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 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.