Probably, in all his varied life, Cashel had never passed a day less to his satisfaction than that spent at Drumcoologan. His mind, already tortured by anxieties, was certainly not relieved by the spectacle that presented itself to his eyes. The fearful condition of a neglected Irish property, where want, crime, disease, and destitution were combined, was now seen by him for the first time. There was one predominant expression on and over everything,—“Despair.” The almost roofless cabin, the scarce-clad children, the fevered father stretched upon his bed of clay, the starving mother, with a dying infant at her bosom, passed before him like the dreadful images of a dream. And then he was to hear from his agent, that these were evils for which no remedy existed: “there had always been fever in Ireland;” “dirt they were used to;” want of clothing had become “natural” to them; falsehood was the first article of their creed; their poverty was only fictitious,—this one owned several cows; the other had money in a savings' bank; and so on. In fact, he had to hear that every estate had its plague-spot of bad characters, where crime and infamy found a refuge; and that it might be poor morality, but good policy, to admit of the custom.

Confused by contradictory statements, wearied by explanations, to understand which nothing short of a life long should have passed in studying the people,—imposed upon by some, unjust towards others,—he listened to interminable discussions without one gleam of enlightenment—and, what is far worse, without one ray of hope; the only piece of satisfaction he derived from the visit being, that Hoare had consented to advance a sum of money upon mortgage of the property, which, in his secret soul, Cashel resolved should be a purchase, and not a mere loan. The object he had in view was to buy off Linton's claim upon the cottage; and having settled all his most pressing debts, to retire for some years to the Continent, till a sufficient sum should have accumulated to permit him to recommence his life as a country gentleman, in a manner and with views very different from what he had hitherto done. He hoped, by travel, to improve his mind and extend his knowledge; he trusted that, by observing the condition of the peasant in different countries of Europe, he might bring back with him certain suggestions applicable to his own tenantry; and, at all events, he determined that the resources of his large fortune should no longer be squandered in meaningless debauch, so long as real destitution and grinding misery lay at his very door. He made many a good and noble resolve, and, like most men in such cases, with youth on their side, he was impatient to begin to act upon them.

It was, then, with a feeling like that of a liberated prisoner, he heard from Mr. Kennyfeck that, although Mr. Hoare and himself had yet many preliminaries to arrange, which might detain them several hours longer, he might now return homeward to Tubbermore, where his company were doubtless in anxious expectation of his coming. There were two roads which led to Drumcoologan,—one was a species of carriage-road, by which they had come that morning; the other was a mere bridle-path over the mountain, and though shorter in mileage, required fully as much time, if not more, to travel. Refusing the assistance of a guide, and preferring to be alone, he set out by himself, and on foot, to pursue the way homeward.

It was the afternoon of a sharp, clear winter's day, when the bracing air and the crisp atmosphere elevate the spirits, and make exercise the most pleasurable of stimulants; and as Cashel went along, he began to feel a return of that buoyancy of heart which had been so peculiarly his own in former days. The future, to which his hope already lent its bright colors, was rapidly erasing the past, and in the confidence of his youth he was fashioning a hundred schemes of life to come.

The path along which he travelled lay between two bleak and barren mountains, and followed the course of a little rivulet for several miles. There was not a cabin to be seen; not a trace of vegetation brightened the dreary picture; not a sheep, nor even a goat, wandered over the wild expanse. It was a solitude the most perfect that could be conceived. Roland often halted to look around him, and each time his eye wandered to a lofty peak of rock on the very summit of the mountain, and where something stood which he fancied might be a human figure. Although gifted with strong power of vision, the great height prevented his feeling any degree of certainty; so that he abandoned the effort, and proceeded on his way for miles without again thinking on the subject. At last, as he was nearing the exit of the glen, he looked up once more; the cliff was now perceptible in its entire extent, and the figure was gone! He gave no further thought to the circumstance, but seeing that the day was declining fast, increased his speed, in order to reach the high-road before night closed in. Scarcely had he proceeded thus more than half a mile, when he perceived, full in front of him, about a couple of hundred yards distant, a man seated upon a stone beside the pathway. Cashel had been too long a wanderer in the wild regions of the “Far West,” not to regard each new-comer as at least a possible enemy. His prairie experience had taught him that men do not take their stand in lonely and unfrequented spots without an object; and so, without halting, which might have awakened suspicion in the other, he managed to slacken his pace somewhat, and thus gave himself more time for thought. He well knew that, in certain parts of Ireland, landlord murder had become frequent; and although he could not charge himself with any act which should point him out as a victim, his was not a mind to waste in casuistry the moments that should be devoted more practically. He was perfectly unarmed, and this consideration rendered him doubly cautious. The matter, however, had but few issues. To go back would be absurd; to halt where he was, still more so. There was nothing, then, for it but to advance; and he continued to do so, calmly and warily, till about twenty paces from the rock where the other sat, still and immovable. Then it was that, dropping on one knee, the stranger threw back a cloak that he wore, and took a deliberate aim at him.

The steady precision of the attitude was enough to show Cashel that the man was well versed in the use of firearms. The distance was short, also, and the chance of escape consequently, the very smallest imaginable. Roland halted, and crossing his arms upon his breast, stood to receive the fire exactly as he would have done in a duel. The other never moved; his dark eye glanced along the barrel without blinking, and his iron grasp held the weapon still pointed at Cashel's heart.

“Fire!” cried Roland, with the loud utterance he would have used in giving the word of command; and scarcely was it spoken when the rifle was flung to the earth, and, springing to his feet, a tall and muscular man advanced with an outstretched hand to meet him.

“Don't you know me yet, Roland?” cried a deep voice in Spanish; “not remember your comrade?”

“What!” exclaimed Casbel, as he rubbed his eyes and shook himself as if to insure he was not dreaming. “This is surely impossible! you cannot be my old friend and shipmate Enrique!”

“That am I, my boy,” cried the other, throwing his arms around him and embracing him in true Mexican fashion; “your own old comrade for many a year, who has sailed with you, fought with you, drunk with you, played with you, and swears now that he wishes for nothing but the old times over again.”

“But how came you here? and when? By what chance did you discover me?” said Roland, as he clasped the other's hand in both his own.

“'T is a long story, amigo mio but you shall have it all one of these days.”

“True; there will be time enough to tell it, for you shall not leave me, Enrique. I was longing for a face of an old comrade once again—one of the old 'Esmeralda's,' with whom my happiest days were passed.”

“I can well believe it,” said Enrique; “and it was to see if wealth had not sapped your courage, as I know it has your high spirits, that I took aim at you, a while ago. Had you quailed, Roland, I almost think I could have pulled the trigger.”

“And I had well deserved it, too,” said Cashel, sternly. “But let us hasten forward. Enrique, I am longing to see an old friend beneath my roof,—longing to see you seated opposite to me, and answering the hundred questions about old friends and times that are thronging to my mind.”

“No, Roland, my way lies thither,” said he, pointing towards the west; “I have been too long your guest already.”

“How do you mean?” cried Roland, in amazement.

“Simply, that for seven weeks I have lived beneath your roof. The narrative is too long for a moment like this; but enough if I tell you that it was a plot of MaritaÑa's, who, had I not acceded to the notion, would have disguised herself and come hither, to watch and see with her own eyes how you played the great man. To save her from such a step, when all persuasion failed, I came here as the sailor Giovanni.”

“You Giovanni?”

“Ay, Roland; and if wealth had not blinded you so effectually, you had soon seen through the counterfeit. As Giovanni, I saw your daily life,—the habits of your household; the sterling worth and fidelity of the men you made your friends; and let me tell you, Cashel, our old associates of the Villa de las Noches were men of unblemished honor compared with those well-bred companions of your prosperity. Often and often have I been upon the brink of declaring myself, and then have I held back, sometimes from a curiosity to see the game played out, sometimes anxious to know how far this course of treachery might be carried on without its awakening your suspicions. At length, I actually grew weary of seeing you the dupe. I almost ceased to feel interest in one who could be imposed upon with such slender artifice. I forgot, Roland, that I was the looker-on, and not the player of the game. It was in this mood of mind I had half determined to leave your house, and suffer you to go down the stream as chance might pilot, when I discovered that treachery had taken a higher flight than I suspected; and that, not content with the slow breaching of your fortune by play and reckless waste, your utter ruin, your very beggary had been compassed!”

Cashel started back, and grasped the other's arm tightly, but never spoke.

“Are you still so infatuated as not to guess the traitor?” cried Enrique.

“You mean Linton?”

“I do.”

“But are you certain of what you speak? or do you mistake the cunning devices of a subtle mind for the darker snares of downright treachery?”

“You shall hear,” said Enrique. “Sit down hereupon this stone; I have some hours before I sail. The vessel leaves Limerick to-morrow for Naples; and thither I am bound, for MaritaÑa is there. No, no, my dear friend, you must not ask me to stay; I have remained longer than I ought; but I waited for the time when I might be able to recompense you for having thus played the spy upon your actions. Hear me out patiently now, for that hour is come.”

As Cashel seated himself beside Enrique, it was only by a great effort he could compose himself to listen, when a hundred questions came thronging to his mind, and doubts and inquiries, of every possible kind, demanded explanation.

“I will not waste your time nor my own by dwelling upon your losses at play. I may one day or another amuse you by showing how little chance our old Columbian friends would have had against these honorable and right honorable swindlers. That you should be the mark for artifice is natural enough; but I have little patience with your blindness in not seeing it. From the first hour of your arrival here, Linton set a watch upon your doings. Phillis was his principal agent. But even upon him Linton had his spies,—myself among the number. Ay, Roland, I was perhaps the only one he trusted! As I have said, Linton marked every step you took, heard all you said, read every letter that reached you. Every night it was his practice, at a certain hour when you repaired to the cottage, to enter your dressing-room by a secret door that led from the theatre; and then, at his leisure, he ransacked your papers, examined your correspondence, searched through all the documents which concerned your estate, possessing himself of information on every point of your circumstances. Nor was this all; he abstracted papers of value from amongst them, well knowing the carelessness of your habits, and with what little risk of detection his boldest darings were attended. I studied him long and closely. For a great while I could not detect the clew to his proceedings. I even at one time ascribed all to jealousy, for he was jealous of the favor by which Lady Kilgoff distinguished you. This, however, could not explain all I saw, for it was on the subject of your fortune his deepest interest was excited. At last came his first move, and the whole game disclosed itself before me. There lay upon your table for several days a deed concerning the cottage where the old gentleman resided with his daughter. This, Linton, to my surprise, did not take away, but simply contented himself by placing it in such a prominent position as would in all likelihood attract your notice. To no purpose, however; you would seem to have tossed it over, among other papers, without attention. He went a step further; he broke the seal, and left the enclosure half open. Still it lay unminded. The next night he carried it off, but you never missed it.”

“Nor was it of any consequence,” broke in Cashel. “It was never perfected, and had neither my signature nor my seal.”

“Are you certain of that?” said Enrique, smiling dubiously.

“I could swear to it.”

“Look here, then,” said the other, as he drew forth a pocket-book, from the folds of which he took a heavy package, and opened it before Cashel. “Is that name, there,—that signature, 'Roland Cashel,'—yours?”

Cashel stared at the writing without speaking; his hands trembled as they held the paper, and his very frame shook with agitation.

“I never wrote it!” cried he, at last, with an effort almost convulsive.

“Yet, see if it be not witnessed; there are the names and address of two persons.”

“It is a forgery; a clever one, I own, but still a forgery. I never signed that paper—never saw it till this instant.”

“Well,” said Enrique, slowly, “I scarcely expected so much of memory from you. It is true, as you say, you never did sign it; but I did.”

“You, Enrique,—you?” exclaimed Cashel.

“Yes, Roland. I accompanied Linton to Limerick at his request, dressed to personate you. We were met at the hotel by two persons summoned to witness this act of signature; of the meaning of which I, of course, appeared to know nothing; nor did I, indeed, till long afterwards discover the real significance.”

“And how came you by it eventually?”

“By imitating Linton's own proceedings. I saw that for security he placed it in an iron box, which he carried with him to Limerick, and which contained another document of apparently far greater value. This casket was long enough in my company on that morning to enable me to take a model of the key, by which I afterwards had another made, and by means of which I obtained possession of both these papers—for here is the other.”

“And when did you take them?”

“About an hour ago. I saw this drama was drawing to a finish. I knew that Linton's schemes were advancing more rapidly than I could follow; his increased confidence of manner proved to me his consciousness of strength, and yet I could neither unravel his cunning nor detect his artifice. Nothing then remained but to carry off these papers; and as the hour of my own departure drew nigh, there was no time to lose. There they are both. I hope you will be a more careful depositary than you have been hitherto.”

“And where is Linton?” cried Roland, his passionate eagerness for revenge mastering every other feeling.

“Still your guest. He dines and does the honors of your board to-day, as he did yesterday, and will to-morrow.”

“Nay, by my oath, that he will never do more! The man is no coward, and he will not refuse me the amende I 'll ask for.”

“Were he on board, it is a loop and a leap I 'd treat him to,” said Enrique.

“So should I, perhaps,” said Cashel, “but the circumstances change with the place. Here he shall have the privilege of the class he has belonged to and disgraced.”

“Not a bit of it, Roland. He is an average member of the guild; the only difference being, with more than average ability. These fellows are all alike. Leave them, I say. Come and rough it with me in the Basque, where a gallant band are fighting for the true sovereign; or let us have another dash in the Far West, where the chase is as the peril and glory of war; or what say you to the East? a Circassian saddle and a cimeter would not be strange to us. Choose your own land, my boy, and let us meet this day month at Cadiz.”

“But why leave me, Enrique? I never had more need of a true-hearted friend than now.”

“No, I cannot stay; my last chance of seeing MaritaÑa depends on my reaching Naples at once; and as to your affair with Linton, it will be one of those things of etiquette, and measured distance, and hair-trigger, in which a rough sailor like myself would be out of place.”

“And MaritaÑa—tell me of her. They said that Rica had come to England.”

“Rica! He dared not set foot on shore. The fellow has few countries open to him now: nor is it known where he is.”

“And is she alone? Is MaritaÑa unprotected?”

“Alone, but not unprotected. The girl who has twice crossed the Cordilleras with a rifle on her shoulder need scarcely fear the insults of the coward herd that would molest her.”

“But how is she living? In what rank—among what associates?”

“I only know that she maintains a costly retinue at the 'Albergo Reale;' that her equipages, her servants, her liveries, bespeak wealth without limit. She is a mystery to the city she inhabits. So much have I heard from others; from herself, a few lines reached me at Dieppe, begging me to see you, and—you will scarcely believe it—asking for a release from that bond of betrothal that passed between you,—as if it could signify anything.”

“Was the freedom thus obtained to be used in your favor, Enrique?”

The other grew purple, and it was a few seconds before he could answer. “No; that is over forever. She has refused me as one so much below her that the very thought of an alliance would be degradation. The sailor—the buccaneer—raise his eyes to her whom princes seek in vain? I go now to say my last farewell: so long as there dwells upon my mind the slenderest chance of meeting her, so long will hope linger in my heart; not the high hope that spirits one to glorious enterprise, but that feverish anxiety that unnerves the courage and shakes the purpose. I cannot endure it any longer.”

“Remain with me, then, for a day—for two at furthest—and we will go together to Naples.”

“Do not ask me, Roland. Some accident—some one of those chances which befall each hour of life—might delay us; and then I might never see her more. She is to leave Naples by the end of the month, but to go whither, or how, she will not tell. Promise me to follow. Let us meet there; and then, if the world has not a faster hold upon you than I deem it has, we 'll seek our fortune together in new lands. What say you? is it a bargain?”

“Agreed,” said Roland. “I'll leave this within a week, without it be my fate to quit it never. Let us rendezvous at Naples, then; and fortune shall decide what after.”

“How hundreds of things press upon my mind, all of which, when I am gone, will be remembered, but which now are confusedly mingled up together! What warnings I meant to have given you! what cautions! and now I can think of nothing.”

“I have room for but one thought,” said Cashel, sternly: “it is a debt which every hour unpaid increases by a tenfold interest.”

“It need not weigh long upon your conscience. Linton wears the dress of a grandee of Spain to-night; but he 'll conceal it from time to time beneath a plain brown domino with yellow cape. Do not mix with your company on arriving, but wait till about twelve o'clock in your room, and you'll hear him as he enters his own: then, without risk of disturbance, you can see him; or, if you like it better, send another to him. Should he be the man you suppose, the whole can easily be arranged by the light of morning.”

“And so shall it be,” said Cashel, in a deep low voice.

“If this life of luxury has not unsteadied your finger, I'd not take his place for half your fortune.”

A short motion of the head from Cashel seemed to concur with this speech.

“How I wish you were to be with me, Enrique!” said he, after a silence of some minutes.

“So should I, Roland; but you will not need me: were there two to bring to reckoning, I'd stay, cost what it might. And here we say farewell.” They had walked together, during this colloquy, to the high-road, which on one side leads towards Tubbermore, and on the other to Limerick.

Cashel held his comrade's hand fast clasped in his own, without speaking. The sense of isolation had never struck him so forcibly as now that, having met an old and attached friend, he was about to part with him so suddenly. It appeared to darken his solitude into something more lonely still.

“I 'd have thought that all this wealth had made you happier,” said Enrique, as he gazed at the sorrow-struck features of his friend.

“Neither happier nor better,” said Roland, mournfully.

“There! see yonder,” cried Enrique, “where you see the lamps flashing; those are the carriages of your gay company. Remember that you are the host to-night; and so, good-bye.”

“Good-bye, my old comrade.”

“One word more,” said Enrique. “Be not weak-hearted—trust none of them—they are false, every one: some from envy; some from treachery; some from that fickleness that they fancy to be knowledge of life; but all are alike. And so, till we meet again at Naples.”

“At Naples,” echoed Cashel; and, with head bent down, pursued his way homeward.