Lord Dunseveric returned to the dining-room. He found the Comtesse seated on a chair which had been placed on the table to give dignity to her position. On the floor, beneath this lofty throne, knelt Neal Ward, his hands tied behind him with a dinner napkin. Maurice, with a carving-knife in his hand, stood on guard over the prisoner. Una, her eyes shining with laughter, was making a speech.

“Please, don’t interrupt,” said the Comtesse, “we are holding a courtmartial on Mr. Neal. Una is acting as prosecutor; I am the judge. In a few minutes, when I have delivered my sentence, Maurice will flog the prisoner, and afterwards hang him with one of the bell ropes.”

“I want to speak to you, Neal,” said Lord Dunseveric, gravely.

Neal pulled his hands from their bandage, and rose, blinking and uncomfortable, to his feet.

“How solemn you are!” said the Comtesse. “What has that very boorish Captain Twinely been telling you? Has a rebellion broken out? Is there going to be a battle? Have they come to arrest Mr. Neal in real earnest? I believe they have. Never mind, Mr. Neal, we will organise a rescue party. They are not real soldiers, you know—only—-only—what do you call them?—ah, yes, yeomen. We will fall upon these yeomen after dark and carry you off to safety.”

“Maurice,” said Lord Dunseveric, “have two horses saddled, and get on your boots. I shall want you to ride along with me. Come, Neal.”

The three men left the room.

“Una,” said the Comtesse, “come quick and change your dress. We will go and see what is happening. Oh, this is most exciting, and the day has been so dull and long. Come, Una, come; we will not let anyone see us. We will take the most delightful short cuts. We will lie hidden in ditches while they pass. We must see everything. Come, come, come.”

“But—my father——”

“Oh, you dear dutiful child! Just for once don’t mind about your father. I am sure something thrilling is going to happen. Haven’t you a duty of obedience towards your aunt? I cannot go without you, for I should certainly lose my way.”

The arrival of Captain Twinely, Lord Dun-severic’s grave face, and his summons to Neal had filled Una’s mind with an undefined dread of some threatening evil. She was nearly as anxious as her aunt to know what was to happen. The prospect of a scamper across country through the rain daunted her very little. She had no doubt of her ability to keep in touch with the horsemen without being discovered. They would keep to the high road. To her every short cut was known, every hill for observation, and every possible hiding-place were as familiar to her as the lawn of Dunseveric House.

Lord Dunseveric led the way to his own dressing-room, beckoning Neal to follow him.

“Sit down, Neal,” he said, “and listen. I must talk while I boot and change my coat. This Twinely, who takes rank as a captain of yeomen, and has, as I suppose, a following of blackguards, brings me orders which I cannot disobey—at least which I mean to disobey in only one particular. I am bidden to search your father’s meeting-house for cannon supposed to be concealed there. I am going to search, and search thoroughly. Your answer will make no difference to my action; but I should like you to tell me, are the cannon there?”

“I do not believe there are any cannon,” said Neal; “I never heard of them, or had any reason to suspect their existence.”

Lord Dunseveric watched him keenly as he replied. Then he said—

“I believe what you say, of course. If there are cannon there you know nothing of it. Now, another question. I am to arrest several persons whose names have been sent to me; your name stands second on the list. Are you a United Irishman? Have you sworn the oath?”

“No,” said Neal, without hesitation. “I have not sworn. I have not been enrolled as one of the society.”

“I may take it that the Government has acted on false information in ordering your arrest?”

“Yes. The man who gave that information certainly lied. I knew nothing of the plans of the United Irishmen yesterday, but it is right that I should tell you——”

“It is not right that you should tell me anything more. You have answered my two questions. I have your word for it that you are not a United Irishman, and I have your word that the information received by the Government is false. I want to hear no more on that subject. I shall take the responsibility of refusing to arrest you. I am also bidden to arrest your father. I ask you no questions about him. I simply inform you that I am not going to arrest him either. I do not believe in his innocence. I think it likely that he is implicated in the conspiracy, but I am not going to arrest him. He is too old to fight, and when the other three men on my list are in prison he will have ceased to be dangerous. Further, your father, in his writings, has attacked, and, in my opinion, slandered me personally.”

“You mean in the Northern Star?”

“Yes. In the series of articles called ‘Letters of a Democrat,’ which are attributed, I think rightly, to your father.”

Lord Dunseveric paused. Neal remained silent. He had not read the articles, but he believed his father had attacked the landlord aristocracy with great bitterness, and he thought it likely that Lord Dunseveric had cause for complaint.

“I do not choose,” said Lord Dunseveric, “to take part in the arrest of a man who may be regarded as my personal enemy. You may tell your father this, and you may tell him further that if he is a wise man he will leave the country at once. The next magistrate charged with his arrest may not have my scruples or my reasons for hesitating. Now, listen to me, Neal, before I leave you, and mark what I say. I admit, and I always have admitted, the justice of the claims which your people make. There ought to be equality, full and complete, for you and the Catholics. There ought to be an end to the tyranny under which you suffer, but you are going the wrong way about getting your wrongs righted. Your rebellion, if there is to be a rebellion, can’t succeed. You will be crushed. And Neal, lad, that crushing will be an evil business. It will be evil for you and your friends, but that’s not all. It will be made an excuse for taking away the hard won liberty of Ireland. Keep out of it, Neal. Take my advice, and keep out of it, for your own sake and for Ireland’s.”

He took the young man’s hand, wrung it, and then turned and left the room. Neal stood for a while dazed and bewildered. He had known before that his father was a supporter of the United Irishmen. He had guessed, though until that morning he had not actually known, how deeply he was versed in the secrets of the society. He had never imagined that the doings and sayings of an obscure Presbyterian minister were being watched and noted by Government spies. He found it hard to realise that the eyes of remote authorities, of secretaries of state, of generals of armies, were fixed on the wind-swept, desolate, northern parish, on the gaunt, grey manse he called his home. Yet the evidence of this incredible surveillance was plain and unmistakable. Men of his father’s congregation, men whom he supposed he knew personally, were to be seized and marched off, to be flogged perhaps as others had been, to be imprisoned certainly, to be hanged very likely, in the end. His father was a marked man, with the choice before him of exile or imprisonment, perhaps death. He himself was suspected, had been informed against, lied about, by someone. His mind flew back to the list of names he had copied out that morning, to the one name which had arrested his attention especially. He remembered that James Finlay owed him a grudge, desired revenge; he felt sure that James Finlay was the informer. Others might have betrayed the secrets of the society. James Finlay alone, so far as he could recollect, had any motive for incriminating him, an entirely innocent man.

He was roused from his thoughts by the sound of horses trampling on the gravel sweep outside. The yeomen, summoned from Ballintoy, had arrived at Dunseveric House. They were laughing, talking, and singing as they rode, a disorderly mob of horsemen rather than a troop of soldiers. After a few minutes they rode past the window again. Captain Twinely was at their head. Ten or twelve yards in front of him, as if disdainful of his company, rode Lord Dunseveric and Maurice.

They were wrapped in long horsemen’s cloaks, for the rain beat down on them. The wind was rising, and blew in strong gusts. The sun had set and the evening was beginning to darken. Neal ran down to the hall, seized his coat and stick, and went out. The horsemen moved along the avenue at a steady trot. Neal saw them turn to the right and go along the road which led to the manse and the meeting-house. He started to run across the fields. He hoped to reach the manse and warn his father before the soldiers arrived at the meeting-house. He ran fast, choosing the shortest and easiest way, avoiding boggy patches of ground which would have checked his progress. After a while, from a point of vantage, he was able to catch a glimpse of the road. He noted that he was level with the yeomen, and he knew that from the point where he saw them the road took a wide curve inland. He calculated that by running fast he would be able to cross it in front of the troop, and by keeping along the cliffs would be able to reach the manse before the soldiers did. He sped forward. Suddenly, as he descended the hill to the road, he became aware of two figures crouching behind the bank which divided the road from the field. He was dimly aware that they were women. He did not look carefully at them. His eyes were fixed on the horsemen against whom he was racing. He gained the edge of the field and sprang upon the bank. He heard his name called softly.

“Neal, Neal, Neal Ward.”

Then somewhat louder by another voice.

“Mr. Neal, come and help us.”

He recognised Una’s voice and then that of the Comtesse. He had no time to think what they wanted or how they came to be crouching in a damp ditch in the rain while the evening darkened over them. He leaped from the bank, crossed the road, and raced off again towards his father’s house.

He arrived at the door, breathless, but sure that he was in good time. He burst into the sitting-room and found his father and uncle, their lamp already lighted, bending over a pile of papers which lay before them on the table.

“The soldiers, the yeomen, are on their way here,” he gasped.

Micah Ward started to his feet.

“What do you say?”

“The yeomen are on their way to the meetinghouse. They are going to search for arms, for cannon, which they say are concealed there.”

Micah Ward stood stock still. His body seemed to have become suddenly rigid. His face grew quite white. Donald, leaning back in his chair, smiled slightly.

“So,” he said, “they have begun. Are there cannon there, brother?”

“Yes, there are,” said Micah, slowly. “Four six-pounders. They belonged to the Volunteers. We kept them. We thought they might be useful some day.”

“Ah,” said Donald, “it’s a pity. We shall have the trouble of re-capturing them. Come, let us go down to the meeting-house. I should like to see these terrible yeomen.”

“Some one has given them information,” said Micah. He was silent for a minute. Then he muttered as if to himself—

“Some one has informed against us. Some one has brought this evil upon us. Who has done this thing? Who is our secret enemy?”

“Come,” said Donald, “don’t stand muttering there.”

But Micah did not heed him. Raising both hands above his head, and looking upward, he spoke slowly, clearly—

“May the curse of the Lord God of Israel light on the man who has informed against us. May he be smitten with madness and blindness and astonishment of heart. May he grope at the noonday as the blind gropeth in the darkness. May his life hang in doubt before him. May he fear day and night, and have none assurance of his life. May he say in the morning—‘Would God it were even! And at even—‘Would God it were morning!’ for the fear of his heart wherewith he shall fear and the sight of his eyes which he shall see.”

“That,” said Donald, “is a mighty fine curse. I’m darned if I ever heard a more comprehensive kind of curse. We had a God-forsaken half-breed in our company, under General Greene, who could curse quite a bit, and he never came near that curse. But I reckon that a good deal of it will have to be wasted. There isn’t a man living who could stand it for long. Still, if you name the man for us, I’ll do the best I can with him. I may not be able to work the blindness and the groping just as you’d wish, but I’ll undertake that his life hangs in doubt before him for a bit.”

Micah Ward, without seeming to hear his brother’s speech, stalked bare-headed from the room and led the way to the meeting-house.

The yeomen were marching up the hill from the main road. They sang a song with a ribald chorus, such as men sing in a tavern when they have drunk deep. Lord Dunseveric and Maurice had already reached the door of the meeting-house, and sat silent on their horses.

“Mr. Ward,” said Lord Dunseveric, “will you give me the keys and save me from the necessity of breaking open the door? I see Neal with you. I suppose he has told you what we have come to do?”

“I shall never render the keys to you,” said Micah Ward. “Do the work of scorn and oppression that you intend, but do not ask me to aid you.”

The yeomen, still singing, straggled up while Lord Dunseveric and Micah Ward spoke. Suddenly their song ceased, and they listened in a silence of sheer amazement while Donald Ward addressed their captain.

“Say”—his voice was cold, clear, and contemptuous—“do you call yourself a captain? And is this your notion of discipline? I guess, young fellow, if we’d had you with General Greene in Carolina we’d have combed you out and flogged the drunken ragamuffins you’re supposed to be commanding. But I reckon you’re just the meanest kind of Britisher there is, that kind that swaggers and runs away.”

“Seize that man,” said Captain Twinely. “Tie him up. Flog him. Cut the life out of him.”

Lord Dunseveric touched his horse with the spur and rode forward. “Captain Twinely, I told you I should have no flogging here. I mean to be obeyed. And you, sir, you are a stranger here. Who are you?”

“This,” said Micah Ward, laying his hand on his brother’s arm, “is my brother.”

“Captain Twinely, dismount two of your men. Let them conduct Mr. Ward and his brother back to the manse and mount guard at the door. Maurice, tie your horse to the tree yonder, and go with them. See that no incivility is used. When they are safe in the manse you can return here.”

Neal walked to the rear of the troop, and stood at the side of the road near the wall, while his father and uncle were marched away under charge of two troopers and Maurice St. Clair.

“Sergeant,” said Captain Twinely, “take four men and force this door.”

Neal heard his name called in a low voice by some one near him.

“Neal, Neal, Neal Ward.”

It was Una’s voice. His father and uncle had passed down the road. The yeomen were eagerly watching their comrades’ attempts to force the door.

Neal stepped over the low stone wall. He felt a hand grasp his and heard Una speak again.

“Neal, stay with us. I’m frightened.”

A low musical laugh followed, and then the voice of the Comtesse—

“You are a most ungallant cavalier, Mr. Neal. You left us alone in one ditch this evening already. You really must not leave us in another.”

The effort to force the door of the meeting-house was unsuccessful.

“Put a musket to the key-hole,” said Captain Twinely, “and blow off the lock.”

There was an explosion. The woodwork was splintered and shattered. A single push opened the door.

“Now,” said Captain Twinely, “come in and search.”

The little meeting-house was scantily furnished. A high, octangular wooden pulpit with a precentor’s pew in front of it stood at the far end. The place was bare of hanging or cupboard which could have been used as a hiding-place. The men tramped about, upsetting the benches and cursing as they tripped upon them.

“It’s as dark as hell,” said Captain Twinely. “Send a man down to the minister’s house and let him fetch up a bundle of bogwood to serve us for torches. I must have light.”

One of the men departed on the errand. The sergeant, mounted on the pulpit, rapped on the desk in front of him to secure silence, and said in a high-pitched, drawling voice—

“Beloved! Brands snatched from the burning! Sanctified vessels! Let us, in this hour of trial and tribulation, when the ungodly triumph and prosper in their way, let us sing the Ould Hunderd to the comfort of our souls.”

At the sound of his voice the troopers who remained outside crowded into the building, leaving two or three of their number to take care of the horses. Well satisfied with his congregation, the sergeant sang to the tune sanctified by two centuries of Puritan worship:—

A burst of applause greeted the performance of this ribald parody. There were calls for more such psalmody. “Give us another verse, Sergeant.” “Tune up again, Dick.” “Goon, goon.” Lord Dunseveric, who had remained outside, dismounted and stalked through the door. He had caught the tune, though not the words of the sergeant’s song. He guessed at some ribald irreverence within. His face was white with anger.

“Silence,” he cried.

The sergeant, half drunk, looked at him with an insolent grin.

“Your lordship will like the second verse better—

Lord Dunseveric forced his way through the soldiers who stood between him and the singer, and approached the pulpit with clenched fists and lips pressed close together.

sang the sergeant, leering at Lord Dunseveric, but before he got any further a woman’s shriek rang through the building. The sergeant stopped abruptly. The men crowded through the door, eager for some new excitement. Lord Dunseveric and Captain Twinely followed as quickly as they could. There was another shriek, a sound of blows and cursing. Then men’s voices rose above the tumult. “Down with the damned croppy.” “Throttle him.” “Knife him.” “Hold him now you’ve got him.” “Take a belt for his arms.” “Ah, here’s Tarn with the torches.” “Strike a light, one of you.” “There’s two of them, two wenches, by God, and young ones.” “Fetch them into the meeting-house and make them dance.” “Ay, by God, we’ll tie their petticoats round their necks and then make them dance.”

There was a rush of men to the door of the meeting-house. Lord Dunseveric and Captain Twinely were borne back before they could see what was going on. Some one struck a light and illuminated a branch of bogwood which he held above his head as a torch.

“Drag in the prisoner,” yelled a voice. “We’ll give him a place in the front and let him see his wenches dance.”

Lord Dunseveric, unable to make his voice heard above the tumult, saw Neal Ward, his arms bound to his sides by a belt strapped round him, dragged into the meeting-house. His face was cut and bleeding slightly. His coat was rent from collar to skirt.

“Make way, make way, for the ladies.”

A trooper entered with two women. He had an arm clasped round each. Lord Dunseveric recognised with amazement and horror his daughter and sister-in-law. Una made no resistance. She was terrified into a state of helplessness. The Comtesse struggled desperately, tearing with her hands at the trooper’s face. Captain Twinely recognised the ladies almost immediately, and strove to reach them. Before he could make his way Lord Dun-severic’s voice rang out above the tumult.

“Maurice, are you there? Come in here at once.”

There was something in his voice, a tone of authority, a note of grim determination, which cowed the rabble of men for an instant. Maurice St. Clair pushed his way through the door in silence.

“Maurice,” said Lord Dunseveric, this time in quiet, even tones, “take that scoundrel by the throat, and if he offers any resistance choke him.”

The man loosed his hold of the two women, and his hand flew to his sword hilt, but before he could draw it, Maurice bounded upon him and flung him to the ground. Once, twice, thrice, as the trooper strove to raise himself, his head was dashed down on the hard earthen floor of the meeting-house.

After the third time he lay still. Maurice rose and stood over him.

“Captain Twinely,” said Lord Dunseveric, “loose the belt from your prisoner’s arms at once.”

The order was obeyed, and Neal stood free. “Bid your men leave the meeting-house, all but the man who holds the torch and the one who lies there on the floor.”

The men, cowed and sullen, went out.

“Now,” said Lord Dunseveric, “I will have this matter cleared up and I will have justice done.” He turned to Neal.

“How came you here with my daughter and the Comtesse de Tourneville?”

Neal stood silent.

“It was my fault,” said the Comtesse. “I brought Una. I wanted to see what was going on. Mr. Neal had nothing to do with it. He tried to save us when, when that man”—she pointed to the soldier on the floor—“found us.”

“Is that so?” asked Lord Dunseveric of Neal.

“It is.”

“Maurice,” said Lord Dunseveric, “take your sister and your aunt home, and when you get them there see that they do not leave the house again. Stay. Take Neal with you. Those ruffians outside will scarcely venture to molest you, but, in case any of them are drunk enough to try, you will be the better of having Neal beside you. Captain Twinely, you will kindly give orders to your men that my son and his party are to be allowed to pass.”

Lord Dunseveric was left alone in the meeting-house save for the man who held the torch and the trooper who lay unconscious on the floor.

“Give me the light,” he said, “and go you over to your comrade. Loose his tunic and feel if his heart still beats.”

The man did as he was bidden, and reported that the trooper whom Maurice had stunned was still alive. Lord Dunseveric walked to the door of the meeting-house and said—

“Captain Twinely, you will now be so good as to take the man who lies here on the floor and hang him at once. We are not well off for trees in this country, but there is at least one at the back of the meeting-house tall enough for the purpose.”

There was a threatening growl from the men outside. They drew together. Their hands were on their swords. Captain Twinely stood a little apart from them. His eyes were fixed on the ground. He made no motion, and showed no sign of obeying the orders he was given. Lord Dunseveric looked first at him and then at the group of angry troopers. He stepped out of the meeting-house and faced them. He took out his watch and looked at it.

“I give you ten minutes,” he said, “in which to obey my order. If that man is not hanged in ten minutes I shall march you back to Dunseveric House, where there are trees enough, and hang every one of you there.”

They could have killed him easily as he stood there. They probably would have killed him if he had shown the smallest sign of fear. They knew perfectly well that he could not have marched them to Dunseveric House or anywhere else if they had chosen to resist. Nevertheless, they obeyed him. A rope was fetched from the saddle of one of the troopers. In those days the yeomen carried ropes fit for hanging men as they went through the country. The unconscious man was carried from the meeting-house and hung up on the only tree large enough to bear his weight. Lord Dunseveric, with his watch in his hand, saw the thing done with a quiet smile. Then he spoke again to Captain Twinely.

“You had better proceed with your search for the cannon. It is getting late, and you have already wasted a great deal of time.”

More torches were lit. The men, now thoroughly cowed, dragged down the pulpit and the precentor’s pew. The earth under them was not beaten hard as was the earth of the rest of the floor. Captain Twinely took a torch and peered at it.

“Fetch a spade,” he said.

They shovelled the earth into a heap against the wall and uncovered four cannons. They were wrapped in oily rags, and well preserved, in spite of their damp hiding-place. Lord Dunseveric looked at them carefully.

“Ah,” he said. “Four of the six-pounders which I bought for my company of volunteer artillery in 1778. I often wondered what had become of them. Now, Captain Twinely, you have got the cannon, you had better go on to arrest your prisoners. I shall go with you, and remember I shall permit no violence unless resistance is offered. I have given your men one lesson to-night already. I am quite prepared to give them another if necessary.”

The rain had ceased when Maurice and Neal, with their charge, left the meeting-house. The direction of the wind had changed since sunset. It blew in from the north and was sweeping the clouds away. The moon, then in its first quarter, seemed to be racing across the sky among the torn fragments of black cloud. Now and then it reached an open space and shed a pale, white light over the landscape. Again, it was hidden and the night was very dark. Already the wind had aroused the sea to its old warfare against the rocks and strands. Its hollow roaring was borne far inland. For a time the little party walked in silence. The Comtesse was the first to speak.

“If that is the way your loyal troops behave, Maurice, I think that I prefer the sans culottes. Ugh! my clothes are half torn off my back. I shall never be able to wear this dress again. It will smell, positively smell, of the grimy hands of that drunken wretch.”

“What brought you out?” asked Maurice. “If you had stayed at home nothing would have happened to you.”

“Now,” said the Comtesse, “if you begin to lecture me, to preach sermons to me, I shall sit down and cry. I could scream and kick at this moment with the greatest ease and pleasure. Then what would you do, my nephew?”

“Maurice,” said Una, “let us go home across the fields. Don’t let us go by the road. I’m afraid of meeting those men again. They will be coming after us.”

“Nonsense, Una,” said the Comtesse, “we have climbed walls enough to-night; we have lain in ditches enough. For my part, if there is a road I shall go along it. Come, Maurice.”

She walked quickly on, and Maurice, puzzled and uncomfortable, followed her. Then Neal laid his hand on Una’s arm.

“This way,” he said. “I will take you home by the fields.”

He sprang across the ditch and stretched out his hand to the girl. Without a word she took it and followed him. They walked in silence over the rough ground. They crossed a wall, and then another, and each time Neal thrilled at the touch of her hand as he turned to help her.

“You were very brave, Neal,” she said.

“It’s not much to be brave for you, Una. Oh, I wish I could have saved you.”

He had her hand in his again, and this time it seemed as if it lingered in his clasp.

“Una,” he said. “Una.”

But her face was turned away from him, and she made no answer. The tone of his voice set her pulses beating with a strong excitement, so that she could not look at him or speak. He was silent again. They reached the high wall which bounded the demesne of Dunseveric House. Once more, as they climbed, her hand was in his.

This time he held it fast. It seemed to him that he was doing something that would call down on him swift rebuke and angry reproach. He expected to have the hand snatched from him. Then, with wonder and a glow of rapturous delight, he felt it lie passive in his. He realised that he was being swept beyond his self-control; that his desire for the girl beside him was stronger than his reason. He yielded to an impulse of sheer passion, clasped Una in his arms, and kissed her face. Again and again he kissed her. He felt her arms tighten round him, knew that she was clinging to him. Then suddenly he let her go and stood back from her, terror-stricken.

“Oh, Una, what have I done? I am mad.”

She stood before him, her face covered with her hands.

“Una, speak to me. Can you ever forgive me? My love made me mad.”

She raised her face and looked at him. In the dim moonlight he saw in her eyes a look of wonderful tenderness. He realised without a word from her that she loved him, too.

“Una—I ought never—I was wrong. But I love you more than my life. Una, you are too far above me. You are a great man’s daughter. How did I dare?”

She came close to him and spoke.

“There is no above or below, Neal, when we love each other. How can I be far above the man who loves me?”

“But there is no hope for us, none at all anywhere. Even to-morrow I may have to go—Una, I may have to fight——”

“Whatever comes, Neal, I know that you will be brave and good. Be brave and good, dear Neal, and then God will give us our hearts’ desire. I am not afraid of the future. Why should you be afraid? If you do what is right and honourable what is there to fear? God is good.”

They walked together to the house. Then Neal turned and went home. The future, so far as he could see into it, was dark enough. His love seemed utterly hopeless, yet his heart was full of unspeakable joy. He knew, beyond all possibility of doubt, that Una loved him and would love him whatever happened. Her strangely simple faith seemed to make all things plain before him. Una loved him and God was good. It was enough.