ALL that night Mary Dillon passed in sleepless anxiety. An undefined apprehension of coming misfortune hung over her, and made her look forward with dread to the coming of the morrow. The wind moaned round the castle walls like some weird prophet wailing over visions of approaching woes, and the waves sung a lament as if they too were in the secrets of the dismal future and were saddened by them. For hours she listened to the dirges of the winds and waters. Her sister slept, but her slumber was disturbed, and her half-uttered exclamations of terror showed that ugly spectres visited her in her dreams. After a restless night the tired watcher rose with the dawn. She threw herself on her knees before a tiny shrine of the Madonna which graced one corner of the room, and, overcome by her distress, prayed aloud to the High Queen of Heaven, whose name she bore, for strength and courage.

The sound of her voice awoke her sister.

"Are they come, Mary ?" asked the child, in affright.

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'No, no, all is quiet; sleep on without fear."

"Oh, I could not bear to sleep again. They are coming, they will soon be here. I have seen them riding hither, with fierce and angry faces, and red swords dripping with blood."

"Do not give credit to idle dreams, Kathleen," said her sister, reprovingly, all the while that the words of the trembling child sent a shudder through her own frame.

"Is there no way to save ourselves, Mary ?"

"Alas! Kathleen, I know of no human aid within reach. We must rely on God's protection only-but that will not fail us."

Did you not hear it said that Captain MacDermott is not far away?" pursued the child. "He is kind, and his soldiers are brave. Did not some one tell us that the Scots ran away from them? He would save us if he knew our distress."

"He could not do it, Kathleen," returned her sister, sadly. "General O'Neill, whom all the soldiers must obey, is not our friend."

"Oh, surely we have never injured General O'Neill," persisted Kathleen; "he would not prevent Captain MacDermott from helping us."

It was useless to reason with the frightened child. Besides, Mary did not at all feel that disapproval of the project which she expressed. It had already occurred to her own mind, but she could not resolve to adopt it. She half believed that the generosity of MacDermott would prevail over O'Neill's antipathy to her family, but, from motives of delicacy, she hesitated to put the chivalry of the soldier to the test. The weakest reasons will, however, decide us for a course which we are already inclined to follow, and so even Kathleen's arguments were enough to overcome her sister's scruples.

"I will try what can be done, Kathleen," she said; "rest thee yet a little longer, the morning air is very chill."

She lit a lamp, and by its light wrote a brief note to MacDermott, explaining the danger that threatened them. A troop of Parliamentarian horsemen was within a few hours' ride of their lands, and they were laying waste the country as they went. Aid could scarcely reach them in time to prevent the destruction of their property, but it might come soon enough to save them from the insults they had themselves to expect, if their home could be reached by the marauders. If it lay in Captain MacDermott's power to procure them this assistance, she implored him to do so. The anxiety of her father and sister as well as her own alarm would excuse this appeal to one on whom she had no claim other than that which distress ever has on generosity.

When she had finished her note, she wrapped herself in a heavy mantle and cautiously left the room. She would not make known her project to anyone, and least of all to her father. She knew it would be galling to his pride to seek help from O'Neill, who was then at feud with their house. The Ulster General had surprised the Castle of Athlone, and deprived their relative, Viscount Costello, of the command of it; but the officer to whom he entrusted the fortress was bought over by Clanrickarde, and it had passed again into the hands of its former masters. Thus O'Neill had special reasons for his hostility to the family of Dillon, exclusive of those which embittered him against all the Lords of the Pafe.

With noiseless step Mary Dillon descended the staircase leading to the basement story of the castle, and, through the gloomy passages into which the feeble rays of the daylight were struggling, made her way to the servants' quarter. The retainers of the castle were astir, early as was the hour. She bade one of them summon to her Shawnna-Coppal, and by the same messenger she ordered a boat to wait by the river stairs. Shawn's toilet was not of the most elaborate, and in a few moments he appeared before his mistress.

"Shawn, you must bear a message for me to the camp of General O'Neill, at Ballinasloe."

"Lady, I'm ready."

"This note is for Captain MacDermott, whom you have seen at Athleag-finn; deliver it into his own hands, if you can, before the evening of to-day. Lose not a moment on your way, our lives depend on your speed."

"Holy angels, preserve us!" exclaimed Shawn, pale with terror. "I will not stop till I reach Ballinasloe. Let me begone at once."

"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.

"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; going on shore."

The oarsmen paused at the summons.

I am

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

Át 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, Plunkett 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.

"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."

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