Early next morning Neal bade farewell to Hope and started on his walk to Donegore. For a while he kept along the side of the hill above the homesteads that clustered on the lower slopes. Nearing Carnmoney he descended and entered a small inn in order to obtain some breakfast. He found the master and his wife in a state of great excitement at the news which had just reached them that their son had been arrested in Belfast. It was some time before Neal could persuade the poor people to attend to his wants, and it was a wretched breakfast which he obtained in the end. Leaving the inn, he walked along the high road through Molusk. He felt tolerably safe, though bodies of troops and yeomen occasionally passed him. His appearance was known to very few, and the people of the district through which he was going were either United Irishmen or in strong sympathy with the society. It was unlikely that any small body of troops would venture to make an arrest unless the officer in command was perfectly certain of the identity of his prisoner. So bold and determined were the people that Neal, stopping opposite a forge, saw the smith fashioning pike heads openly, and apparently fearlessly. A number of men stood round the forge door talking earnestly together. Among them was Phelim, the blind piper, whom Neal had seen in the street of Antrim. They did not care to be silent or to lower their tones when Neal came within earshot.

“The place of the muster,” said the piper, “is the Roughfort. Mind you that now, and let them that has guns or pikes bring them.”

“And will M’Cracken be there?”

“Ay, he will. Did you no see the proclamation?”

“Will Kelso,” said some one to the smith, “are you working hard, man? We’ll be needing a hundred more of them pike heads by the morrow’s morn.”

The smith let his hammer fall with a clang on the anvil, and wiped his brow.

“If you do as good a day’s work the morrow with what I’m working on the day there’ll be no cause to complain of you.”

For the first time since he left Dunseveric Neal felt a glow of hope for the success of the movement. He knew what kind of men these farmers and weavers of Carnmoney and Templepatrick were—austere, cold men, difficult to stir to violent action; much more difficult to cow into submission when once roused. And it appeared to him that they were effectually roused now. He recalled his father’s fanciful application of the verse from the prophet Jeremiah. He felt, as he listened to the men round the forge, the hardness of “the northern iron and the steel.” Was there among the blustering yeomen and the disciplined troops of the King iron strong enough to break this iron?

He left the forge and passed on. His thoughts wandered from the enterprise to which he had pledged himself, and went back, as time after time during the last week they had gone back, to Una. He walked slowly, wrapped in a delicious day dream. Neglecting all fact, driving from his mind the pressing realities which separated him hopelessly from the girl he loved, he imagined himself walking with her hand-in-hand in some fair place far from strife and the oppression which engendered strife. A feeling of fierce anger succeeded his day dream. The sun shone around him, the fields were fair to see. Life ought to be like the sun and the fields—simple and good and beautiful. Instead it was difficult and cruel. He was being dragged into a vortex of hate and battle. He loathed the very thought of it. He wanted peace and love. And yet, what escape was there for him? Did he even want to escape if he could? The wrong and tyranny he was to resist were real, insistent, horrible. He would be less than a man, unworthy of the love and peace he longed for, if he failed to do his part in the struggle for freedom and right.

At midday he reached Templepatrick village, and found the inn occupied by a company of yeomen. He sought the house of the weaver with whom he had dined, in company with James Hope, on his way to Belfast. The door was closed, which struck Neal as strange, for the day was hot and bright. Coming near, he was surprised not to hear the rattle of the loom. Birnie was a diligent man; it was not like him to leave his loom idle. And the house was not empty; he could hear a woman’s voice within. He tapped at the door, intending to ask for a meal and for leave to rest awhile in the kitchen. There was no answer, and yet he heard the woman still speaking in low, even tones. He tapped again, and then, despairing of attracting attention, raised the latch, half opened the door, and looked in.

In the centre of the room, before the table, a young woman knelt motionless, her hands stretched out before her. Neal heard her words distinctly. She was praying aloud, steadily, quietly, but with intense earnestness, repeating petition after petition for her husband’s safety. Very softly Neal withdrew, and closed the door. He might go dinner-less, but he would not interrupt the woman’s prayer. He turned, to find a little girl gazing at him. He recognised her as the Birnies’ child.

“Were you wanting my da?”

“Yes, little girl, but I see he’s gone away.”

“Ay, but if any stranger come for him I was to tell my mammy.”

“Never mind,” said Neal, “you mustn’t disturb her now.”

“Will I no, then, when I was bid? Mammy I Mammy!”

In answer to the child’s cry, the mother opened the door.

“What ails you, Jinny? I beg pardon, sir, were you waiting long on me?”

“You don’t know me, Mrs. Birnie. You don’t remember me, but I came here one day before with James Hope.”

“I mind you rightly, now,” she said. “Come in and welcome, but if it’s my Johnny you’re wanting to see, he’s abroad the day.”

“I won’t disturb you,” said Neal.

“You’ll come in. You’ll no be disturbing me. There’s time enough for me to do what I was doing when the wean called me.”

Neal entered the house and sat down.

“You’ll be wanting a bite to eat,” said Mrs. Birnie. “It’s little I have to set for you. The wee bit of meat we had I cooked for him to take with him. It’s no much Jinny and I will be wanting while he’s awa from us. Ay, and it’s no much Jinny and I will get if he doesna come back to us.”

“Where has he gone?” said Neal.

“He’s gone to the turn-out,” she said, “to the turn-out that’s to be the morrow. It’s more goes to the like, I’m thinking, than comes back again. He’s taken the pike with him that lay in the thatch over our bed this year and more. But the will of the Lord be done.”

“May God bring him safe home to you,” said Neal.

“Ay, for God can do it, God can do it. I take no shame to tell you, young as you are, that I was just beseeching the Lord to do that very thing the now while you were standing at the door with Jinny. But the Lord’s ways are not our ways.”

She set a plate of oatcake and a jug of buttermilk on the table before Neal, and bade him eat. When he had finished, he sat and talked with her awhile, trying to cheer her. But she was not a woman to whom it was easy to speak comfortable platitudes. She knew the risks her husband ran—the risk of battle, and the worse risks which would follow defeat. Neal rose at last and bid her farewell.

“When you are saying a prayer for your husband,” he said, “say one for me; I’ll be along with him. I’m going to fight, too.”

“And will you be for the turn-out, then, with the rest of them? Ay, I’ll say a prayer for you, And—and, young man, will you mind this? When you’re killing with your pike and your gun, even if it’s a yeo that’s forninst you, gie a thought to the woman that’s waiting at home for him, and, maybe, praying. What would hinder her to pray for her husband even if he’s a yeoman itself?”

It was seven o’clock when Neal reached Aeneas Moylin’s house, after climbing the steep lane that led to Donegore Hill. He found six men seated in the kitchen—Donald Ward, Felix Matier, James Bigger, Moylin, and two others whom he did not know.

“It’s Neal Ward,” said Donald. “It’s my nephew. Sit you down, Neal.”

No one else spoke, though all nodded a welcome to Neal, and room was made for him at the table round which they sat. Aeneas Moylin rose and fetched another chair from the next room. Neal noticed that all six men were armed with swords and pistols. Donald Ward sat at the head of the table, and had the air of presiding over the assembly. There was dead silence in the room, save for the ticking of a clock which stood in a dark corner out of reach of the rays of the lamp. No man looked at any of his fellows. They stared fixedly at the ceil-ing, the table, or the walls of the room. After about ten minutes, Felix Marier rose, crossed the room, and peered at the face of the clock. He went to the door and looked down the lane. Then, with a sharp in drawing of the breath, he took his seat again. The movement roused Donald Ward. He fumbled in his pocket and took out his tobacco box and pipe. He held up the box—a round metal one—between his finger and thumb. Neal, watching, noticed with surprise that his uncle’s hand trembled. Donald held the box without opening it for perhaps two minutes. Then, when he was satisfied that his hand had become quite steady, he filled his pipe. He rose, took a red peat from the hearth, and pressed it into the bowl of the pipe. He did not sit down again, but stood with his back to the fire, smoking slowly.

Aeneas Moylin spoke in a harsh, constrained voice.

“Would you like to drink while you wait? I have whisky in the house.”

“No,” said Donald.

No one else spoke. Several of the men passed their tongues over their dry lips. They would have liked to drink. Their mouths craved for moisture, their nerves for stimulant, but they did not dispute Donald Ward’s emphatic refusal of the offer.

THE NORTHERN IRON. 175

Felix Matier rose again. Again he peered at the clock, again he opened the door and looked down the lane. This time he turned almost immediately, and said in a whisper—

“There’s a man coming up the lane, a single rider. I hear the tramp of his horse.”

He hurried back to his seat, as if he were afraid of being found apart from his comrades, as if he expected to discover safety in being just as they were. Donald Ward took his seat at the head of the table. His pipe was still between his teeth, but he ceased to puff at it. It went out. The noise of the approaching horse was plainly audible in the room. Felix Matier suddenly laughed aloud, and then, half chanting the words in a cracked falsetto, quoted—

“Silence,” said Donald.

“It is the man,” said Aeneas Moylin, “I hear him putting his horse into the shed. It must be he, for no stranger would know the ways of the place.”

James Bigger drew a pistol from his pocket, looked carefully at the priming, cocked it, and laid it on the table before him. He sat at the end of the table opposite Donald Ward, and was nearest to the door.

The latch was lifted from without, and James Finlay entered the room.

“You are welcome,” said Donald, and every man at the table repeated the words.

Something in the tone of the greeting, some sense of the feeling of those who sat in the room, startled Finlay. He glanced quickly at the faces before him, became deadly white, took a step forward, and then turned to the door. It was shut, and James Bigger, pistol in hand, stood with his back against it. Finlay stood stock still. Neal, looking at him, saw in his eyes an expression of wild terror—an agonised appeal against the horror of death. In a single instant the man had understood that he was to die. Neal felt suddenly sick. Then a faintness overcame him. He leaned back in his chair unable to move or speak. He heard, as if from a great distance, as if out of some other world, his uncle’s voice—

“The men you expected are not here, friend Finlay. M’Cracken is busy elsewhere, Munro has an engagement this evening, Hope, whom you let slip through your fingers yesterday, is not here to meet you.”

“I wear to you,” said Finlay, “that I tried to save Hope yesterday.”

Donald took no notice of the words. He went on in a cool, not unfriendly voice—

“We are here instead, and I think we are quite competent to conduct the business for which we have met; but you will agree with us that this house will not be a suitable place for our meeting. We think it possible that Aeneas Moylin’s house may be honoured to-night by a visit from some dragoons or yeomen. They will probably be here in half an hour or so. In the meanwhile, we shall adjourn. There is near at hand a building in which we may do our business with perfect safety. You have heard, no doubt, of the custom of body-snatching. Certain men—resurrectioners, I think, they are called—have of late been robbing the graves of the dead and selling the bodies to the medical schools for the use of students. The good people of Donegore have built in their churchyard a very strong vault with an iron door, of which Aeneas Moylin keeps the key. Here they lock up the bodies of their dead for some time before burying them—until, in fact, the natural process of decay renders them unsuitable for dissection. This is their plan for defeating the resurrectioners. There is no corpse in the vault to-night. We shall adjourn to it for our meeting. The walls are so thick, I am told, that remarks made even in a loud tone inside will be perfectly inaudible to eavesdroppers. The door is very small, and we can hang a cloak over it, so that our light will not be visible. It will be quite safe, I think; besides, it will be very comforting to think that if one of us should die suddenly his body will not become a prey to the ghoulish people of whom we have been speaking.”

He paused. Then, changing his tone, gave a series of orders sharply—

“Bind his hands; gag him; bring a lantern and means of lighting it; bring the key of the vault; leave the light burning in this room. Come.”

The orders were quickly obeyed. It was evident that every man had his part assigned to him beforehand, and was ready to perform it. There was no confusion, and no talking.

Aeneas Moylin led the way. Two others followed, holding Finlay, gagged and bound, by the arms. Donald Ward, his sword drawn, brought up the rear. They moved like shadows, silent as the prowling body-snatchers of whom Donald had spoken. In front of them, a dark mass in the June twilight, stood the church, and round it rows and rows of gravestones. Moylin crossed the stile. Finlay sank helplessly in a heap in front of it. He could not, or would not, put his feet on the stone steps. Without a word his two guards lifted him over and set him down among the graves. Donald crossed last. Moylin, skirting the north side and east end of the church, led the way to a corner of the cemetery where as yet there were no graves. Here, barely visible among the tangle of brambles, nettles, and high grass which surrounded it, was the vault. Kneeling down, Moylin fumbled with the lock, turned the key with a harsh, grating sound, and swung open the iron door. It was so low that he had to crawl through. Once inside, he lit the lantern which he carried, and set it on a projecting ledge of the rough masonry. Finlay was dragged in. The others followed, until only Neal and his uncle stood outside.

“Go next, Neal.”

“I cannot, uncle, I cannot. I am not able to bear this. Let me go away.”

“No. Go in, Neal. I want you. I shall let you go before the end.”

The vault was very small inside. It was hardly possible to stand upright, and there was little room for moving. James Finlay, still bound and gagged, lay at full length on the floor. Round him, their backs against the walls, crouched the other men. Moylin’s lantern cast a feeble, smoky light. The air was heavy and close. It was the air of a charnel house.

“Take from the prisoner the arms he has about him,” said Donald. “Search his pockets, and hand me any papers you find. Now unbind his hands and free his mouth.

“James Finlay, we are here to do strict justice. You shall have every opportunity of making any defence you can when you hear the charges against you. If you clear yourself you shall go free. If you fail to clear yourself you must abide the sentence we shall pronounce on you.”

“You mean to murder me,” said Finlay.

“We do not mean to murder you. We mean to try you fairly, to acquit or condemn you in strict justice. The first charge against you is this. Having been sworn a member of the United Irishmen’s society in Dunseveric, having been elected a member of the committee, you did in Belfast betray the fact that there were cannons hidden in Dunseveric meeting-house, and gave the names of your fellow-members to the military authorities.”

“I deny it,” said James Finlay. “You have no proof of what you assert. Will you murder a man on suspicion?”

“Neal Ward,” said Donald, “is this the James Finlay who was sworn into the society by your father?”

“Yes,” said Neal.

“Tell us what you know about the visit of the yeomen to Dunseveric.”

Neal repeated the story, telling how he knew that his own name was on the list of persons to be arrested. There was a short silence when he had finished. Then James Bigger said—

“You have not proved that charge. The circumstances are suspicious, but you have proved nothing.”

Donald Ward bowed. Finlay raised his eyes for the first time since he had been dragged into the vault, and looked round him. There had risen in him a faint gleam of hope.

“You are charged,” said Donald again, “with having provided the dragoons who rioted in Belfast last week with information which led them to attack and wreck the houses of those who are in sympathy with the society.”

“I deny it. I was not in Belfast that day. I was here in Donegore with Aeneas Moylin.”

“You were here the day before,” said Moylin. “You left me that day early. You might have been in Belfast.”

“I was not,” said Finlay.

Donald Ward produced the scrap of paper which Peg Macllrea had taken from the dragoon.

“Is that your handwriting?” he asked.

James Finlay looked at it.

“No,” he said.

“James Bigger, give me the last letter you had from Finlay. Now put the lantern down on the floor.”

He looked steadily at the two papers, and then said—

“In my opinion these two are written in the same hand.”

He passed them to the man next him. They went from one to another, and the lantern followed them on their round. Each man examined them, and each nodded assent to Donald’s judgment.

“Let me see them,” said Finlay.

They were handed to him.

“I wrote neither of them,” he said.

“Your name is signed to one,” said Donald.

“I did not write it. I had hurt my hand on the day that note was written. I employed another man to write for me. The writing is his, not mine.”

“Name the man you employed.”

“Kelso, James Kelso.”

“Kelso was flogged yesterday,” said Donald, “and is in prison now. Do you expect us to believe that he is an informer? Is flogging the wages the Government pays to spies?”

“I tried to save Hope yesterday,” said Finlay. “Neal Ward, you have borne witness against me, tell the truth in my favour now.”

“I believe,” said Neal, “that he did his best to save Hope and me yesterday. I believe that he wanted to save us.”

He told his story, and he told of the conversation on the Cave Hill afterwards. Again the flicker of hope crossed Finlay’s face.

“You hear,” he said. “Would I have done that if I had been a spy? Could I not have handed them over to Major Barber if I had wished?”

“I shall give you credit for wishing to save Hope,” said Donald. “Now I shall pass on to examine the papers found on your person to-night.”

Finlay protested eagerly.

“I beg that you do not examine the papers you have taken from me. They are of a very private nature.”

“I can believe,” said Donald, “that they are of such a kind that you would willingly keep them private.”

“I protest against your reading them. You have no right to read them. They concern others besides myself. I give you my word.” Donald smiled slightly. “I swear to you, I will take any oath you like that there is no paper there concerned with politics. You will be sorry if you read them. I assure you that you will repent it afterwards. You will be doing a base action. You will pry into a woman’s secrets. You will bring dishonour on the name of a lady, a noble lady.”

“Do you expect us to believe,” said Donald, “that any lady, noble or other—that any woman, that any soldier’s drab even—has written love letters to you?”

He opened the first which came to hand of the pile of papers which lay at his feet on the ground. Finlay suddenly collapsed. His impudence, his ready tongue, deserted him. He had fought hard for his life, had lied—though he lied clumsily in his terror—had twisted, doubled, fought point after point. Whatever the papers were that had been found on him, he recognised that they condemned him utterly and hopelessly. The game was up for him. He saw death near at hand, as he had seen it earlier when he first realised that he was trapped in Moylin’s kitchen. Donald read paper after paper silently. Some he laid aside, some he passed to the man next him to read. Finlay rallied again. He made another effort to save himself.

“Listen,” he said, “I have influence with the Government. I don’t deny it. Call me an informer, a spy, any name you like, but admit that I have served my masters well. I can claim my reward from them. Let me go, and I swear to obtain pardons for you. I can save you, and I will. I offer you your lives as a ransom for mine.”

“Would you make us what you are?” said Donald, sternly. “Would you buy our honour, you that have sold your own?”

Finlay, who had knelt during his last appeal, fell forward. He grasped Neal with his hands. It was impossible in the dim light to see the faces of the men around him, but some instinct told him that Neal alone felt any pity for him, that from Neal alone he could look for mercy.

“Save me, Neal Ward,” he cried. “For God’s sake, save me. Plead for me. They will listen to you. I am not fit to die. Grant me one day, only one day. I will do anything you wish. I will—— Oh God, Oh Christ, Oh save me, save me now.”

Neal felt drops fall on his hands, sweat from Finlay’s brow or tears from his eyes. He spoke—

“Spare him,” he said. “Who are we to judge and to slay? James Hope said to me last night that we should refrain from taking vengeance. I ask you to respect what he said. Think of it. This man’s case to-day may be your’s to-morrow. Remember you may take life, but you cannot give it back again. Oh, this is too horrible—to kill him now, like this.”

He felt, while he spoke, Finlay’s clasp tighten on him. He felt the wretched man cover his hands with kisses, mumble, and slobber over them. There was silence for a while when Neal ceased speaking. Then Donald Ward said—

“Neal, you had better go outside. This is no work for a boy. It is, as you say, horrible. To inflict death is horrible, but it is sometimes just. If ever it is just for man to shed the blood of his brother man it is just to shed James Finlay’s. He has broken oaths, has brought death on men, has made women widows and children fatherless; has wrecked the happiness of homes. He has done these things for the sake of gain, for money counted out to him as the priests counted money out to Judas.”

It was impossible to plead his cause any more. Moylin pushed open the iron door of the vault. Neal dragged his hands from Finlay’s grasp, and crawled out. He heard the door clang behind him, shut fast again upon the broken, terrified wretch and his judges—relentless men of iron, the northern iron.

No sound reached him from the vault. Save for the occasional belated cawing of some rooks in the trees which shadowed the graveyard, no sound reached him at all. He sat down among the nettles, the brambles, and the rank grass and burst into tears.