While Forester slept soundly and without a dream, his long, light breathing scarce audible within the quiet chamber, a glance within the room of Bagenal Daly would have shown that, whatever the consequences of the past night's troubles, he, at least, was not likely to be taken unprepared. On the table in the middle of the apartment two wax candles burned, two others, as yet unlighted, stood ready on the chimney-piece, a pistol case lay open, displaying the weapons, whose trim and orderly appearance denoted recent care, a fact attested by certain cloths and flannels which lay about; a mould for bullets, and about a dozen newly-cast balls most carefully filed and rubbed smooth with sandpaper, were flanked by a small case of surgical instruments, with an ample supply of lint and ligatures such as are used to secure bleeding vessels, in the use of which few unprofessional persons could vie with Bagenal Daly. A few sheets of paper lay also there, on which appeared some recent writing; and in a large, deep armchair, ready dressed for the day, sat Daly himself, sound asleep; one arm hung listlessly over the chair, the other was supported in the breast of his waistcoat. The strong, stern features, unrelaxed by repose, had the same impassive expression of cold defiance as when awake, and if his lips muttered, the accents were not less determined and firm than in his moments of self-possession. He awoke from time to time and looked at his watch, and once threw open the sash, and held out his hand to ascertain if it were raining; but these interruptions did not interfere with his rest, for, the minute after, he slept as soundly as before. Nor was he the only one within that house who counted the hours thus anxiously. A lantern in the stable beamed brightly, showing three horses ready saddled, the bridles on the neck of each, and ready at a moment's notice to be bitted; while pacing slowly to and fro, like a sentinel on his post, was the tall figure of Sandy M'Grane, wrapped in a long cloth cloak, and his head covered by a cap, whose shape and material spoke of a far-off land and wild companionship; for it was the skin of a black fox, and the workmanship the product of a squaw's fair fingers.

Sandy's patrol was occasionally extended to the gateway, where he usually halted for a few seconds to listen, and then resumed his path as leisurely as before. At last, he remained somewhat longer at the gate, and bent his head more cautiously to hear; then, noiselessly unbarring and unlocking the door, he leaned out. To an ear less practised than his own the silence would have been complete. Not so with Sandy, whose perceptions had received the last finish of an Indian education. He retired hastily, and, approaching that part of the court beneath his master's window, gave a long, low whistle. The next moment the casement was opened, and Daly's head appeared.

“What now, Sandy? It is but a quarter past five.”

“It may be so; but there 's a horse coming fast up the lower road.”

“Listen again, and try if you hear it still.”

Sandy did so, and was back in a few moments. “He's crossing the bridge at 'the elms' now, and will be here in less than three minutes more.”

“Watch the gate, then—let there be no noise—and come up by the back stairs.” With these words Daly closed the sash, and Sandy returned to his post.

Ere many minutes elapsed, the door of Mr. Daly's chamber was opened, and Sandy announced Major Hackett of Brough. As Bagenal Daly rose to meet him, an expression of more than ordinary sternness was stamped upon his bold features.

“Your servant informed me that I should find you in readiness to receive me, Mr. Bagenal Daly,” said the Major, a coarse-looking, carbuncled-face man of about forty; “but perhaps the object of my visit would be better accomplished if I could have a few minutes' conversation with a Captain Forester who is here.”

“If you can show me no sufficient cause to the contrary, sir,” replied Daly, proudly, “I shall act for him on this occasion.”

“I beg pardon,” said Hackett, smiling dubiously. “The business I came upon induced me to suspect that, at your time of life—”

“Go on, sir,—finish your speech,” said Daly, with' a fixed and steady stare which, very far from reassuring, seemed only to increase the Major's confusion.

“After all, Mr. Daly,” resumed he, more hurriedly, “I have nothing whatever to do with that. My duty is to convey a message from Mr. Alexander MacDonough to a gentleman named Forester, here. If you will accept the proposition, and assist in the necessary arrangements—”

“We are ready, sir,—quite ready. One of the consequences of admitting dubious acquaintances to the intimacy of the table is such a case as the present. I was guilty of one fault in this respect, but I shall show you I was not unprepared for what might follow it.” And as he spoke he threw open the window and called out, “Sandy! awaken Captain Forester. I suppose you are ready, Major Hackett, with your friend?”

“Yes, sir. Mr. MacDonough expects us at Cluan Point.”

“And bridle the horses, Sandy,” continued Daly, speaking from the window.

“I conclude, from what I see,” said Hackett, “that your friend is not only decided against offering an apology for his offence, but desirous of a meeting.”

“Who said so, sir?—or what right have you to suppose that any gentleman of good family and good prospects should indulge such an unnatural caprice as to wish to risk character and life in a quarrel with Mr. Alexander MacDonough?”

“Circumstanced as that gentleman is at this moment, your observations are unsuitable, sir,” replied the Major.

“So they are,” said Daly, hastily; “or, rather, so they would have been, if not provoked by your remark. But, hang me! if I think it signifies much; if it were not that some of our country neighbors were good-natured enough to treat this same Mr. MacDonough on terms of equality before, I 'd have advised Captain Forester not to mind him. My maxim is, there are always low fellows enough to shoot one another, and never come trespassing among the manors of their betters.”

“I must confess myself unprepared, sir, to hear language like this,” said Hackett, sternly.

“Not a whit more than I feel at seeing myself negotiating a meeting with a man turned out of the army with disgrace,” said Daly, as his face grew purple with anger. “Were it not that I would not risk a hint of dishonor on this young Englishman's fame, I 'd never interchange three words with Major Hackett.”

“You shall answer for this, sir, and speedily too, by G——d!” said Hackett, moving towards the door.

Daly burst into an insolent laugh, and said, “Your friend waits us at Cluan?” The other bowed. “Well, within an hour we'll be there also,” continued the old man; and Hackett retired without adding a syllable.

“We 've about five miles to ride, Captain Forester,” said Daly, as they issued forth beneath the deeply arched gate of the abbey; “but the road is a mountain one, and will not admit of fast riding. A fine old place it is,” said he, as, halting his horse, he bestowed a gaze of admiration on the venerable building, now dimly visible in the gray of the breaking dawn. “The pious founders little dreamt of men leaving its portals on such an errand as ours.” Then, suddenly, with a changed voice, he added, “Men are the same in every age and country; what our ancestors did in steel breastplates, we do now in broadcloth; the law, as they call it, must always be subservient to human passions, and the judge and the jury come too late, since their function is penalty, and not prevention.”

“But surely you do not think the world was better in the times when might was right?” said Forester.

“The system worked better than we suspect,” said the old man, gravely; “there was such a thing as public opinion among men in those days, although its exponents were neither pamphlets nor scurrilous newspapers. The unjust and the cruel were held in reprobation, and the good and the charitable had a fame as pure, although their deeds were not trumpeted aloud or graven on marble. Believe me, sir, we are not by any means so much wiser or better than those who went before us, and even if we were both, we certainly are not happier. This eternal warfare, this hand to hand and foot to foot straggle for rank, apd wealth, and power, that goes on amongst us now, had no existence then, when a man's destiny was carved out for him, and he was all but powerless to alter or control it.”

“That alone was no small evil,” said Forester, interrupting him; “the humbly born and the lowly were debarred from all the prizes of life, no matter how great their deserts or how shining their abilities.”

“Every rank and class had wherewithal to supply its own requirements,” answered Daly, proudly, “and the menial had more time to indulge affection for his master, when removed from the temptation to rival him. That strong bond of attachment has all but disappeared from amongst us.” As he spoke, he turned in his saddle and called out, “Can we cross the sands now, or is the tide making, Sandy?”

“It's no just making yet,” said the servant, cautiously; “but when the breakers are so heavy off the Point, it's aye safer to keep the road.”

“The road be it, then,” muttered Daly to himself; “men never are so chary of life as when about to risk it.”

The observation, although not intended, reached Forester's ears, and he smiled and said, “Naturally enough, perhaps we ought not to be too exacting with fortune.”

Daly turned suddenly round, and, after a brief pause, asked, “What skill have you with the pistol?”

“When the mark is a shilling I can hit it, three times out of four, at twenty paces; but I never fired at a man.”

“That does make a difference,” said Daly, musingly; “nothing short of an arrant coward could look calmly on a fellow-creature while he pointed a loaded pistol at his heart. A brave man will always have self-possession enough to feel the misery of his position. Had the feat been one of vengeance, and not of love, Tell had never hit the apple, sir. But there,—is not that a fire yonder?”

“Yes, I see a red glare through the mist.”

“There's a fire on Cluan Point,” said Sandy, riding up to his master's side; “I trow it's a signal.”

“Ah! meant to quicken us, perhaps; some fear of being surprised,” said Daly, hastily; “let us move on faster.” And they spurred their horses to a sharp trot as they descended the gentle slope, which, projecting far out to sea, formed the promontory of Cluan.

It was at this moment the glorious panorama of Clue Bay broke forth before Forester's astonished eyes. He looked with rapture on that spacious sheet of water, which, in all the majesty of the great ocean, came heaving and swelling against the rocky coast, or pouring its flood of foam through the narrow channels between the islands. Of these, the diversity seemed endless, some rich and verdant, teeming with abundance and dotted with cottages; others, less fertile, were covered with sheep or goats; while some, rugged and barren, frowned gloomily amid the watery waste, and one, far out to sea, a bold and lofty cliff, showed a faint twinkling star upon its side, the light for the homeward-bound ships over the Atlantic.

“That's Clare Island yonder,” said Bagenal Daly, as he observed the direction of Forester's gaze; “I must show you the great cliff there. What say you if we go to-morrow?”

“To-morrow!” repeated Forester, smiling faintly; “perhaps so.”