When Neal arrived at the Manse he found that the sentries who had stood on guard at the door were gone. The yeomen had disappeared from before the meeting-house. The broken door, the fragments of the wrecked pulpit, and the figure of the dead trooper swinging from the branch on which he had been hanged were left as witnesses of the Government’s methods of keeping the peace in Ireland.

Inside the house Micah Ward paced restlessly up and down the floor of his study. Donald, his pipe in his mouth, sat on a chair tilted back till its front legs were six inches off the floor, and watched his brother. His attitude was precarious, but he seemed comfortable. Micah paused in his rapid walking as Neal entered the room.

“What have you been doing, Neal?” he said. “Your face is cut, your clothes are torn; you look strangely excited.”

“I have been fighting,” said Neal. He did not think it necessary to add that he had also been love-making, though it was the interview with Una, far more than the struggle with the yeoman, which was accountable for the gleaming eyes and exalted expression which his father noticed.

“I trust you were victorious,” said his father, “that your foot has been dipped in the blood of your enemies, that you have broken their bonds asunder, and cast away their cords from you.”

“I was beaten,” said Neal, smiling. It did not just then seem to matter in the least whether he got the better or the worse in any fight.

“You take it easily,” said Donald. “That’s right. You’re blooded now, my boy. You’ll fight all the better in the future for tasting your own blood to-night. I’m glad you are back with us. Your father has been giving out the most terrific curses against Lord Dunseveric for having brought the yeomen down on us and taken away his little cannons. I tell him he ought to be thankful they went into the meeting-house instead of coming here. They’d have made a fine haul if they’d walked in and taken the papers he and I had before us when you came here. They’d have had the name of every United Irishman in the district, and could have picked them out and hanged them one by one just as they wanted them.”

“They’ve got as much information, pretty near, as they want,” said Neal. “They are going to arrest three men to-night.”

“God’s curse on Eustace St. Clair, him whom men call the Lord of Dunseveric,” said Micah Ward.

“Spare your curse,” said Neal. “It wasn’t Lord Dunseveric who brought the yeomen on us, and what’s more, only for Lord Dunseveric you’d be arrested yourself along with the others.”

“What’s that you are saying, Neal?”

“I’m saying that the yeomen brought orders from Belfast to arrest you, and me, too, and that Lord Dunseveric refused to execute them.”

“And so I owe my liberty to him! I must thank him for sparing me. I must fawn on him as my benefactor, I suppose. But I will not. I refuse his mercy. I scorn it. I cast it from me. I shall go out and offer myself to the yeomen. They are to take my friends, my people, and spare me. I will not be spared. Am I the hireling who fleeth when the wolf cometh? I go to deliver myself into their hands.”

“You’ll be a bigger fool than I take you for if you do,” said Donald. “Listen to me now. From what Neal has told us it’s evident that you’re wrong about Lord Dunseveric. It wasn’t he who brought the yeomen on us. There is someone else giving information, and it’s someone who knows a good deal. Come now, brother Micah, cudgel your brains; think, man, think, who is it?”

Micah sat down at his writing-table and passed his hand over his forehead.

“I cannot think,” he said. “I cannot, I will not believe that any of our people are traitors.”

“These orders which Neal speaks of came from Belfast,” said Donald. “Who has lately left this place and gone to Belfast?”

“I can tell you,” said Neal. “James Finlay. And James Finlay had a grudge against me. The others whom he denounced were United Irishmen, perhaps, I was not. Why was I marked down, unless it was out of private revenge? And there is nobody, nobody in the world, I believe, who has cause to wish for vengeance on me but only James Finlay.”

“I cannot believe it of him,” said Micah. “He came to me himself and asked to be sworn. He was a member of the committee.”

“If you ask me,” said Donald, “I think the case looks pretty black against James Finlay. I think, if things are to go on as they ought to, it will be better to cut the throat of James Finlay. I don’t know him myself. Perhaps you do, Neal.”

“Yes,” said Neal, “I know him.”

“And he is in Belfast,” said Donald. “Now, what was his reason for going to Belfast?”

“He went to obtain employment there,” said Micah. “He took letters from me to some of our leaders. He went as my agent, properly accredited. My God! If he is a traitor!”

“I think, Neal,” said Donald, slowly, “that you and I will take a little trip to Belfast. I should like to see Belfast. They tell me it’s a rising town. I should also very much like to see our friend, James Finlay. I suppose we shall be able to get horses to-morrow. Oh, yes, I’ve money to pay for them. I didn’t come over here with an empty purse. Anyway, I think Belfast would suit me better than this place. Your people, Micah, don’t seem very fond of fighting.”

“You are wrong, brother. They will lay down their lives right willingly when the hour comes.”

Donald shrugged his shoulders. “Their meeting-house has been sacked, their minister has been insulted, three of their members are to be arrested, and they haven’t offered to strike a blow. If they had the courage of doe rabbits they’d have chopped up those yeomen into little bits and then scattered them for dung over the fields. I reckon that unless the Belfast people are better than these men of yours I’d be better back in the States. We knew how to fight for our liberty there.”

“You don’t understand, Donald. Believe me, you do not understand. We must wait for orders before we strike.”

“Oh, orders. Waiting for orders. I know the meaning of that. It means waiting till the English have picked off your leaders one by one. I know, I know.”

Donald knocked the ashes out of his pipe, filled it, and lit it again, and puffed slowly. Micah sat at the table, his head resting in his hands. Neal sat down and waited. There was silence in the room for a long time. Donald’s pipe was smoked out and lit again before he spoke. Then he said—

“I’m sorry, brother, that I spoke as I did. I don’t doubt but that your men are brave enough. They would have fought if they had known what was going on.”

“No, no,” said Micah. “You were right. I ought to have fought if there were no one else. I ought to have died. I would to God that I had died before our meeting-house was pillaged, before my people, the men who trusted me, were taken captive. I was a coward. I am a coward.”

“Then I am a coward, too,” said Donald, “and no man ever called me that before. But I’m not, and you’re not. We were two unarmed men against fifty. I’m fond enough of fighting, and I take on a job with long odds against me, but not such long odds as that. Rouse yourself, brother. Neal and I are going to Belfast. We shall want letters from you. We must be accredited like Mr. James Finlay, whom we hope to meet. Stir yourself now and write for us.”

“I will, I will. Neal, there is no ink here. I remember that I used all my ink yesterday. Neal, fetch me ink from the shelf beside the window.”

In a few minutes Micah’s pen was travelling slowly over the paper. Neal could hear its spluttering and scratching. Suddenly, there was a noise of loud knocking at the door of the house. Donald started and laid down his pipe. Neal rose to his feet, and stood waiting for some order from his father. Micah stopped writing, and turned in his chair. All trace of nervousness and agitation had vanished from his face. His expression was gentle and joyous. He smiled.

“They have come to take me also,” he said. “I am right glad. I shall not be indebted to the oppressor for my liberty. I shall be where a shepherd ought to be—with the sheep whom the wolf attacks.”

Again came the noise of knocking, heavy, authoritative, threatening.

“Be quick, my son, and open the door. Bid those who enter welcome.”

Neal went to the door, and opened it. Lord Dunseveric stood outside, the reins of his horse’s bridle thrown over his arm, his riding whip in his hand.

“I suppose your father is within, Neal. I want to speak to him. Will you ask him if I may enter?”

“He bid me say that you were welcome,” said Neal.

Lord Dunseveric stared at him in surprise. “How did he know who was at the door? But it does not matter. Show me where to tie my horse, Neal, and I will enter.”

Neal led the way into the room where his father and his uncle sat. Lord Dunseveric bowed to Micah Ward, and then, with a glance at Donald, said—

“The matter on which I wish to speak to you, sir, is somewhat private. Is it your wish that this gentleman be present?”

“It is my brother, Donald Ward,” said Micah. “He knows my mind. I have no secrets from him.”

Lord Dunseveric bowed again, and said, with a slight smile—

“It is possible that Mr. Donald Ward may find some of your secrets rather embarrassing to keep.”

“I can take care of myself, master,” said Donald, “or, maybe, I ought to say, my lord. But your lordships and dukeships, and countships and kingships stick somewhat in my throat. I come from America, where we hold one man the equal of another.”

“You are a young nation,” said Lord Dunseveric. “In time you will perhaps learn courtesy. But I did not come here to-night to teach manners to vagrant Yankees. I came to tell Mr. Ward that he has been denounced to the Government as a seditious person, and that I received orders to-night to arrest him.”

“And why did you not execute them?” said Micah Ward. “Did I ask you to spare me? Have you come here to be thanked for your mercy? I wish to God you had arrested me.”

“I assure you,” said Lord Dunseveric, “that I expect no thanks, nor do I claim any credit for being merciful. You owe your escape solely to the fact that I happen to be a gentleman. It did not consist with my honour to arrest a man who was my personal enemy.”

“Then,” said Micah Ward, “what have you come here for now?”

“I have come, Mr. Ward, to warn you, if you will accept my warning, that you are in great danger, that the ramifications of your conspiracy are known to the Government, that your society is honeycombed with treachery, that your roll of membership contains the names of many spies.”

“Is that all?” said Micah.

“No, sir, that is not all. I have a regard for your son. He has been the companion of my children. He has grown up at my feet. He has eaten at my table. I like him and I respect him. I beg of you to consider what the consequences will be for him if you drag him into this insane conspiracy. His name was along with yours on the list of seditious persons placed in my hands to-night. He has an hour or two ago incurred the anger—the dangerous anger—of a body of yeomen and their commander. I beg that you will consider his safety, and not take him with you on the way on which you are going.”

“Neal,” said Micah Ward, “is no more than a boy. He knows nothing about politics. What has my action to do with Neal?”

“His name,” said Lord Dunseveric, “stood next to yours on the list of suspected persons which was put into my hands to-night.”

“So be it,” said Micah, solemnly! “if my son is to suffer, if he is to die, he can die no better than fighting for liberty against oppression.”

“And I’m thinking,” said Donald, “that you are going a bit too fast with your talk about dying. I’ve fought just such a fight as my brother is thinking of. I’m through with it now, and I’m not dead. By God, we saw to it that it was the other men who died. We won, sir. Mark my words, we won. It was the people that carried the day in America. They carried the day in France. What’s to hinder us from carrying the day in Ireland, too?”

Lord Dunseveric looked at Donald during this speech and kept his eyes fixed upon him for some minutes afterwards. He was considering whether it was worth while replying to this boastful American Irishman. At last he turned again to Micah Ward.

“I have still one more appeal to make to you, Mr. Ward. You care for Ireland. Is it not so? I believe you do. Believe, me, I care for Ireland, too.”

“Yes,” said Micah, “you care for Ireland, but what do you mean by Ireland? You mean a bloodthirsty, supercilious, unprincipled ascendancy, for whom the public exists only as a prey to be destroyed, who keep themselves close and mark men’s steps that they may lay in wait for them; who forge chains for their country, who distrust and belie the people, who scoff at the complaints of the poor and needy, and who impudently call themselves Ireland. You have made the sick and the lame to go out of their way. You have eaten the good pastures and trodden down the residue with your feet. You care for Ireland, and you mean by Ireland the powers and privileges of a class. I care for Ireland, but I mean Ireland, not for certain noblemen and gentlemen, but Ireland for the Irish people, for the poor as well as the rich, for the Protestant, Dissenter, and Roman Catholic alike.”

“I have never denied, nor do I wish to deny, the need of reform,” said Lord Dunseveric, “but I see before all the necessity of loyalty to the constitution.”

“Ay, to the constitution which gives the whole power of the country to a few proud aristocrats, which excludes three-fourths of the people from its benefits, which allows eight hundred thousand Northerns to be insulted and trampled on because they speak of emancipation, which uses forced oaths, overflowing Bastilles and foreign troops for extorting the loyalty of the Irish people.”

“I will not argue these things with you now,” said Lord Dunseveric, “my time is short. I would rather pray you to consider what the end of your conspiracy must be. If you succeed, and I do not believe you can succeed, you will deluge the country in blood. If your best hopes are realised, and you receive the help you hope for from abroad, you will make Ireland the cockpit of a European war. Our commerce and manufactures, reviving under the fostering care of our own Irish Parliament, will be destroyed. Our fields, which none will dare to till, will be fouled with the dead bodies of our sons and daughters. But why should I complete the picture? If you fail—and you must fail—you will fling the country into the arms of England. Our gentry will be terrified, our commons will be cowed. Designing Englishmen will make an easy prey of us. They will take from us even the hard-earned measure of independence we already possess. We shall become, and we shall remain, a contemptible province of their Empire instead of a sovereign and independent nation. The English are wise enough to see this, though you cannot see it. Man, they want you to rebel.”

“Is that all you have to say?” said Micah.

“That is all.”

“Then I bid you farewell, Eustace St. Clair, Lord of Dunseveric. You have spoken well and pleaded speciously for yourself and your class. I might listen to you if I had not seen your armed ruffians break into our meeting-houses; if I had not in memory stories of burnt homesteads, outraged women, tortured men; you might persuade me if I did not know that to-night you have taken my friends, that you will drag them before unjust judges, and condemn them on the evidence of perjured informers, as you condemned William Orr. Human endurance can bear no more. Patience is a virtue of the Gospel, but it becomes cowardice in the face of certain wrongs. Go, I have done with you. Go, torture, burn, shed innocent blood, and then, like the adulterous woman, eat and wipe your mouth, and say ‘I have done no wickedness.’”

“I came into your house on a mission of friendliness and mercy,” said Lord Dunseveric. “I have been met with insults and lies, lies known to be lies to you who speak them. I go, and I pray that we shall meet no more until the day when, in the light of God’s judgment, you will be able to see what is in my heart and understand what is in your own.”

“Amen,” said Micah Ward, “I bide the test.”

Lord Dunseveric bowed and walked to the door of the room. Then he paused, turned, and held out his hand to Neal.

“You will stay with your father, Neal,” he said. “I do not deny that you are right, but I will not part from you in unfriendliness. God keep you, boy, and remember, for old time’s sake, for the sake of the days when you stood by my knee with my own children, you have always—whatever happens—always a friend in me.”

Neal’s eyes filled with tears. He could not speak. He carried Lord Dunseveric’s hand to his lips, and then let it go reluctantly. He heard the door shut, the trampling of the horse’s hoofs on the gravel outside. Then, with a sudden sob, which he could not repress, went across the room and sat down beside his father.

Donald alone remained cheerful and unimpressed.

“I know that kind of man,” he said. “A fine kind it is. We had some of the same sort in America. They crossed the border afterwards to Canada. I suppose you mean to ship your aristocracy to England, Micah? From all I hear they like lords over there. But now to work. We can’t afford to sit still while Master James Finlay is loose about the country with your letters in his pocket. We must get on his trail, Neal, you and I. We must hinder him from doing more mischief. The first thing we want is horses. Micah, where are we to get horses—two strong nags, fit for the road?”

Micah Ward sat silent and absorbed. His eyes were fixed on the wall in front of him. His lips moved, as if he were speaking, but no sound passed them. His hands on the table in front of him twitched. He was a prey to some violent emotion. Donald called him again, and again failed to arouse his attention. Then he turned to Neal.

“There’s no use in trying to rouse your father, Neal. He will not hear us. Do you know anyone who will sell or hire us horses?”

“Rab MacClure has horses,” said Neal. “He has two, I know. He lives not far from this, about a mile along the road towards Ballintoy.”

“Come, then,” said Donald, “I suppose the family will be all abed by this time. We must rouse them. There’s Scripture warrant for it. ‘Friend, lend me three loaves.’ We must imitate the man in the Gospel. If he won’t give us the horses for the asking we must weary him with importunity.”

It was ten o’clock when Donald and his nephew set out. The clouds were blown away, and the sky clear. The moon rode high, and by its light they caught glimpses from the road of the white foam of the sea breaking on the dark strand below them. The roar of the waves came loud to them as they walked. A quarter of an hour’s quick walking brought them to their destination.

“There’s the house,” said Neal.

“They are not in bed,” said Donald, “I can see lights in the windows.”

Neal led the way across a stile and over a field. Lights moved from one window to another in the house. A sound of wailing rose! and fell, mingling with the monotonous roar of the waves. The door stood wide open. Within, a woman rocked herself to and fro on a low stool. Three children clung to her petticoats and cried piteously. A farm labourer stood, stupidly motionless, beside the dresser. A maid servant, with a light in her hand, flitted restlessly in and out of the kitchen. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders. She was but half dressed, like one aroused suddenly from bed. A rush-light burned in an iron stand on the floor, shedding a feeble light. Donald and Neal stood at the door astonished.

“Our friends the yeomen have been here,” said Donald. “I guess they have taken the man of the house away with them. We’ve another account to settle with James Finlay when we get him.”

“Mistress MacClure,” said Neal, “I’ve come to know if you will hire or sell us two horses. We must be travelling to-morrow morn.”

“Horses,” cried the woman. “Who speaks o’ horses? I wouldna care if ye were to rive horse and beast and a’ from me now. My man’s gone. Oh, my weans, my weans, who’ll care for you now when they’ve kilt your da? Oh, the bonny man, and the kind!”

“Is it you, Master Neal?” said the farm servant. “Will you no fetch the minister till her?”

“I will, I will,” said Neal, conscience-stricken at having mentioned his own need in a home so sorely stricken with grief. He ran from the house back to the manse.

Donald took the labourer outside the door and spoke to him. He explained that he was the minister’s brother. He said that he had pressing need of the horses. He offered money. The man shook his head.

“They are no mine, and the mistress is in no way to bargain with you the night.”

“I want the horses,” said Donald, “to ride after the villain who betrayed your master.”

The man’s face brightened suddenly.

“Aye, and is that so? Why couldn’t ye have tell’t me that afore? Keep your money in your pouch. You’ll have the horses in the morn. I’ll take it on myself to give them to you. I’d like fine to be going along. But there’s the mistress and the weans. I darena leave them, and I willna. There’s na yin only me and the God that’s above us all for her to look to now.”

Micah Ward, followed by his son, hastened to the MacClure’s house. He stood for a moment on the threshold, lifted his hat solemnly from his head, and invoked a blessing on the building and all in it. Then he went to the woman, took one of her hands in his, and spoke to her with wonderful tenderness.

“Bessie, my poor bairn. Hearken to me, Bessie. Quit crying now, quit crying. Do you mind, Bessie, the day I was in with you and Rab away at Ballymoney? Do you mind how you said to me that every day you thanked God for the good husband he had given you? Do you mind that? Ah, woman, you mind it well. And you know rightly what the blessed book says to you—’ The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ Are you to receive good at the Lord’s hand, my bairn, and not evil, too?”

He laid his hand upon her head and prayed aloud. The terrified maid stood still, her light in her hand, her hair in tangled strings, half covering her face. The labourer, Donald, and Neal stood together near the door. The children buried their heads in their mother’s lap. Micah Ward poured out his very soul in supplication. Very literally it might be said that he wrestled with his God in prayer. It was in some such terms that he himself would have described the spiritual effort which he made. More than once, after a pause in his outpouring he repeated, in tones which were almost fierce in their determination, the words of Jacob to the angel—“I will not let you go until you bless me.” For a long time he continued to pray, interrupted by no sound except an occasional bitter cry from Bessie MacClune. One after another the feeble lights flickered, guttered and went out. The room was in darkness. Through the open door came the long roaring of the sea. Within, Micah Ward’s voice rose to passionate cries or sank to a tender whisper. Bessie MacClure’s grief found utterance now only in half-choked sobs. At last even these ceased. Her hands ceased wandering over the curly heads of the children, asleep now with her lap for their pillow. She felt upwards along Micah Ward’s coat. Her fingers crept along his sleeve, found his hand, pulled it down to her, and laid her cheek against it. He ceased to pray. The victory was won. He had, by sheer violence, dragged peace for a stricken soul from the closely-guarded treasury of the Lord of Sabaoth.