The Saturday—the eventful day on which Kate was to have her answer from Sir Within—came at last. It was a dark, lowering morning, and though there was scarcely an air of wind, the sea rolled heavily in, and broke in great showers of spray over the rocks, sure sign that a storm was raging at a distance.

From an early hour she had been down to the shore to watch if any boat could be seen, but not a sail could be descried, and the fishermen told her that though the wind had a faint sound in it, there were few Westport men would like to venture out in such a sea.

“If you cannot see a boat before noon, Tim Hennesy,” said she to one of the boatmen, “you’ll have to man the yawl, for I mean to go over myself.”

“It will be a hard beat against the wind, Miss,” said the man. “It will take you an hour to get out of the bay here.”

“I suppose we shall reach Westport before morning?”

“It will be no bad job if we get in by this time to-morrow.”

She turned angrily away; she hated opposition in every shape, and even the semblance of anything like discouragement chafed and irritated her.

“No sign of your messenger?” said Luttrell, from the window of the tower, whither he had gone to have a look out over the sea.

“It is early yet, Sir. If they came out on the ebb we should not see them for at least another hour.”

He made no answer, but closed the window and withdrew.

“Get me a loaf of bread, Molly, and some hard eggs and a bottle of, milk,” said Kate, as she entered the house.

“And sure, Miss, it’s not off to the mountains you’ll be going such a day as this. It will be a down-pour of rain before evening, and you have a bad cough on you already.”

“You most lend me your cloak, too, Molly,” said she, not heeding the remonstrance, “it’s much warmer than my own.”

“Ain’t I proud that it would be on your back, the Heavens bless and protect you! But where are you going that you want a cloak?”

“Go and ask my uncle if I may speak to him.”

Molly went, and came back at once to say that Mr. Luttrell was in his room below, and she might come there when she pleased.

“I am thinking of going over to Westport, Sir,” said Kate, as she passed the threshold. “My impatience is fevering me, and I want to do something.”

“Listen to the sea, young woman; it is no day to go out, and those drifting clouds tell that it will be worse by-and-by.”

“All the better if it blows a little, it will take me off thinking of other cares.”

“I’ll not hear of it—there!”

And he waved his hand as though to dismiss her, but she never moved, but stood calm and collected where she was.

“You remember, Sir, to-day is Saturday, and very little time is now left us for preparation. By going over to the mainland, I shall meet O’Rorke, and save his journey here and back again, and the chances are, that, seeing the day rough, he’d not like to leave Westport this morning.”

“I have told you my mind, that is enough,” said he, with an impatient gesture; but she stood still, and never quitted the spot. “I don’t suppose you have heard me, Miss Luttrell,” said he, with a tone of suppressed passion.

“Yes, Sir, I have heard you, but you have not heard me. My poor old grandfather’s case is imminent; whatever measures are to be taken for his defence cannot be deferred much longer. If the plan I adopted should turn out a failure, I must think of another, and that quickly.”

“What is this old peasant to me?” broke out Luttrell, fiercely. “Is this low-lived family to persecute me to my last day? You must not leave me—you shall not—I am not to be deserted for the sake of a felon!—I’ll not hear of it!—Go! Leave me?”

She moved gently towards him, and laid her hand on the back of his chair.

“Dear uncle,” said she, in a low, soft voice, “it would grieve you sorely if aught befel this poor old man—aught, I mean, that we could have prevented. Let me go and see if I cannot be of some use to him.”

“Go?—go where?—do you mean to the gaol?”

“Yes, Sir, I mean to see him.”

“The yery thing I have forbidden! The express compact by which you came here was, no intercourse with this—this—family, and now that the contact has become a stain and a disgrace, now is the moment you take to draw closer to them.”

“I want to show I am worthy to be a Lnttrell, Sir. It was their boast that they never deserted their wounded.”

“They never linked their fortunes to felons and murderers, young woman. I will hear no more of this.”

“I hope to be back here by to-morrow night, uncle,” said she, softly, and she bent down her head over him till the long silky curls of her golden hair grazed his temple.

He brushed them rudely back, and in a stern tone said:

“To such as leave this against my consent there is no road back. Do you hear me?”

“I do,” said she, faintly.

“Do you understand me?”

“Yes.”

“Enough, then. Leave me now, and let me have peace.”

“Uncle—dear uncle,” she began; but he stopped her at once.

“None of this—none of this with me, young woman. You are free to make your choice: you are my adopted daughter, or, you are the grandchild of a man whose claim to be notorious will soon dispute with ours. It is an easy thing to make up your mind upon.”

“I have done so already, Sir.”

“Very well, so much the better. Leave me now. I wish to be alone.”

“Let me say good-by, Sir; let me kiss your hand, and say, for the last time, how grateful I am for all your past kindness.”

He never spoke, but continued to stare at her with an expression of wonderment and surprise.

“Would you leave me, then?—would you leave me, Kate?” muttered he, at last.

“No, Sir, if the door be not closed against me—never!”

“None but yourself can close that door against you.”

“Dear, kind uncle, only hear me. It may be, that I have failed in the scheme I planned; it may be, that some other road must be found to help this poor, forlorn, friendless old man. Let me at least see him; let me give him what comfort a few kind words can give; let him know that he has sympathy in his hour of sadness.”

“Sympathy with the felon—sympathy with the murderer! I have none. I feel shame—bitter, bitter shame, that I cannot disclaim him—disavow him! My own miserable rashness and folly brought me to this! but when I descended to their poverty, I did not descend to their crimes.”

“Well,” said she, haughtily, “I have no such excuses to shelter me. I am of them by blood, as I am in heart. I’ll not desert him.”

“May your choice be fortunate,” said he, with mockery; “but remember, young woman, that when once you pass under the lintel of the gaol, you forfeit every right to enter here again. It is but fair that you know it.”

“I know it, Sir; good-by.” She stooped to take his hand, but he drew it rudely from her, and she raised the skirt of his coat to her lips and kissed it.

“Remember, young woman, if the time comes that you shall tell of this desertion of me—this cold, unfeeling desertion—take care you tell the truth. No harping on Luttrell pride, or Luttrell sternness—no pretending that it was the man of birth could not accept companionship of misery with the plebeian; but the simple fact, than when the hour of a decided allegiance came, you stood by the criminal and abandoned the gentleman. There is the simple fact; deny it if you dare!”

“There is not one will dare to question me, Sir, and your caution is unneeded.”

“Your present conduct is no guarantee for future prudence!”

“Dear uncle—” she began; but he stopped her hastily, and said:

“It is useless to recal our relationship when you have dissolved its ties.”

“Oh, Sir, do not cast me off because I am unhappy.”

“Here is your home, Kate,” said he, coldly. “Whenever you leave it, it is of your own free will, not of mine. Go now, if you wish, but remember, you go at your peril.”

She darted a fierce look at him as he uttered the last word, as though it had pierced her like a dart, and for a moment she seemed as if her temper could no longer be kept under; but with an effort she conquered, and simply saying, “I accept the peril, Sir,” she turned and left the room.

She gave her orders to the crew of the launch to get ready at once, and sent down to the boat her little basket; and then, while Molly Ryan was absent, she packed her trunk with whatever she possessed, and prepared to leave Arran, if it might be, for ever. Her tears ran fast as she bent over her task, and they relieved her overwrought mind, for she was racked and torn by a conflict—a hard conflict—in which different hopes, and fears, and ambitions warred, and struggled for the mastery.

“Here is the hour of destitution—the long dreaded hour come at last, and it finds me less prepared to brave it than I thought for. By this time to-morrow the sun will not shine on one more friendless than myself. I used to fancy with what courage I could meet this fall, and even dare it. Where is all my bravery now?”

“‘Tis blowin’ harder, Miss Kate; and Tim Hennesy says it’s only the beginnin’ of it, and that he’s not easy at all about taking you out in such weather.”

“Tell Tim Hennesy, that if I hear any more of his fears I’ll not take him. Let them carry that trunk down, Molly; I shall be away some days, and those things there are for you.”

“Sure, ain’t you coming back, Miss?” cried the woman, whose cheeks became ashy pale with terror.

“I have told you I am going for a few days; and, Molly, till I do come, be more attentive than ever to my uncle; he may miss me, and he is not well just now, and be sure you look to him. Keep the key, too, of this room of mine, unless my uncle asks for it.”

“Oh, you’re not coming back to us—you’ll never come back!” cried the poor creature, in an agony of sorrow. And she fell at Kate’s feet and grasped her dress, as though to detain her.

“There, there, this is all childishness, Molly. You will displease me if you go on so. Was that thunder I heard?”

As she asked, a knock came to the door, and the captain of the boat’s crew, Tim Hennesy, put in his head. “If you are bent on goin’, Miss, the tide is on the turn, and there’s no time to lose.”

“You’re a hard man to ask her, Tim Hennesy,” said the woman, rising, and speaking with a fiery vehemence: “You’re a hard man, after losing your own brother at sea, to take her out in weather like this.”

Kate gave a hurried look over the room, and then, as if not trusting her control over her feelings, she went quietly out, and hastened down to the shore.

There was, indeed, no lime to be lost, and all the efforts of the sailors were barely enough to save the small boat that lay next the pier from being crushed against the rocks with each breaking wave.

“Get on board, Miss; now’s the moment!” cried one of the men. And, just as he spoke, she made a bold spring and lighted safely in the stern.

The strong arms strained to the oars, and in a few seconds they were on board the yawl. The last few turns of the capstan were needed to raise the anchor, and now the jib was set to “pay her head round,” and amidst a perfect shower of spray as the craft swung “about,” the mainsail was hoisted, and they were away.

“What’s the signal flying from the tower for?” said one of the sailors. And he pointed to a strip of dark-coloured bunting that now floated from the flagstaff.

“That’s his honour’s way of bidding us good-by,” said Hennesy. “I’ve never seen it these twelve years.”

“How can we answer it, Tim?” said Kate, eagerly.

“We’ll show him his own colours, Miss,” said the man. And, knotting the Luttrell flag on the halyard, he hoisted it in a moment. “Ay, he sees it now! Down comes his own ensign now to tell us that we’re answered!”

“Was it to say good-by, or was it to recal her?—was it a last greeting of love and affection, or was it a word of scorn?” Such were Kate’s musings as the craft heaved and worked in the strong sea, while the waves broke on the bow, and scattered great sheets of water over them.

“I wish there was a dry spot to shelter you, Miss,” said Tim, as he saw the poor girl shivering and dripping from head to foot. “But it’s worse now than farther out; the squalls are stronger here under the land.”

“Ay; but we’ll have a heavier sea outside,” said another, who would willingly have seen her change her mind even now, and return to the island.

“It’s a fine wind for America, if that was where we were going,” said a third, laughingly.

Kate smiled; she had almost said, “It matters little to me where;” but she caught herself, and was silent. Hour after hour went over, and they seemed—to her, at least—to have made no way whatever, for there rose the great mountain-peaks; the well-known cliffs of Arran frowned down dark and sullen, just as when they had left the harbour. She could count one by one the lights along the bay, and knew each cabin they belonged to; and there, high tap, shone out a lonely star from the tower of St. Finbar, bringing back of her mind the solitary watcher who sat to sorrow over her desertion! The night at last fell, but the wind increased, and so rough was the sea that she was forced to take shelter in the bottom of the boat, where they made shift to cover her with & coarse canopy of tarpaulin.

Like some dreadful dream drawn out to the length of years, the hours of that night went over. The howling storm, the thundering crash of the sea, and at times a quivering motion in the craft, as though her timbers were about to part, and more even than these, the wild voices of the men, obliged to shout that they might be heard amongst the din, made up a mass of horrors that appalled her. Sometimes the danger seemed imminent, for to the loud words and cries of the men a sudden silence would succeed, while floods of water would pour over the sides, and threaten them with instant drowning. The agony she pictured to herself of a last struggle for life was more terrible far than her fear of death; and yet, through all these, came the thought: “Might it not be better thus? Should I not have left to the few who knew me dearer, fonder memories, than my life, if I am yet to live, will bequeath?” Worn out by these anxieties, and exhausted too, she fell into a deep sleep—so deep, that all the warring noises of the storm never awoke her; nor was she conscious that a new morning had dawned, and a bright noon followed it, as the launch entered the bay of Westport, and beat up for the harbour.

When Hennesy awoke her, to say that they were close in to shore, she neither could collect herself nor answer him; benumbed with cold, and wet, she could barely muster strength to arise, and sit down in the stern-sheets.

“That’s the spire of the town, Miss, under the hill there.”

“It was a wild night, Tim?” said she, inquiringly.

“I have seen as rough a sea, but I never was out in a stronger gale.”

“Mind that you tell my uncle so when you get back; and be sure to say that I bore it well.”

“Why wouldn’t I? The sorrow a word ever crossed your lips. No man ever was braver!” “That’s true,” muttered the others.

“Get me a piece of bread out of that basket, Tim; and don’t forget to tell my uncle how I ate, and ate heartily.”