When Kate arrived at home, she found a note awaiting her, in Hemsworth's hand-writing, and marked “haste.” Guessing at once to what it must refer, she broke the seal, with an anxious heart, and read:—

“And they will not believe this man's integrity?” exclaimed Kate, as she finished reading the note. “He who jeopardies his own station and character for the sake of one actually his enemy! Well, their injustice shall not involve my honor.” “Was it you brought this letter?” said she to Wylie, who stood, hat in hand, at the door.

“Yes, my lady, and I was told there might, perhaps, be an answer.”

“No—there is none; say 'very well'—that I have read it. Where is Mr. Hemsworth?”

“At Macroom. There was a meeting of magistrates there, which delayed him, and he wrote this note, and sent me on, instead of coming himself.”

“Say, that I shall be happy to see him—that's enough,” said Kate, hurriedly, and turned back again into the house.

Through all the difficulties that beset her path hitherto, she had found Sir Archy an able and a willing adviser; but now, the time was come, when not only must she act independently of his aid, but, perhaps, in actual opposition to his views—taking for her guidance one distrusted by almost every member of her family. Yet what alternative remained—how betray Hemsworth's conduct in a case which, if known, must exhibit him as false to the Government, and acting secretly against the very orders that were given to him? This, she could not think of, and thus by the force of circumstances, was constrained to accept of Hemsworth as an ally. Her anxious deliberations on this score were suddenly interrupted by the sound of horses galloping on the road, and as she looked out, the individual in question rode up the causeway, followed by his groom.

The O'Donoghue was alone in the drawing-room, musing over the sad events which necessitated Mark's concealment, when Hemsworth entered, heated by a long and fast ride.

“Is your son at home, sir—your eldest son?” said he, as soon as a very brief greeting was over.

“If you'll kindly ring that bell, which my gout won't permit me to reach, we'll inquire,” said the old man, with a well-affected indifference.

“I must not create any suspicion among the servants,” said Hemsworth, cautiously, “I have reason to believe that some danger is impending over him, and that he had better leave this house for a day or two.”

The apparent frankness of the tone in which he spoke, threw the O'Donoghue completely off his guard, and taking Hemsworth's hand, he said—

“Thank you sincerely for this, the poor boy got wind of it this morning, and I trust before now, has reached some place of safety for the present—but what steps can we take? is there anything you can advise us to do?—I'm really so bewildered by all I hear, and so doubtful of what is true and what false, that I'm incapable of an opinion. Here comes the only clear head amongst us. Kate, my sweet child, Mr. Hemsworth, like a kind friend, has come over about this affair of Mark's—will you and Sir Archy talk it over with him?”

“I beg your pardon for the interruption, sir, but I must recall to your memory that I am a magistrate, charged with your son's arrest, and if by an unguarded expression,” here he smiled significantly, “I have betrayed my instructions—I rely on your honour not to expose me to the consequences.”

The O'Donoghue listened, without thoroughly comprehending the distinction the other aimed at, and then, as if disliking the trouble of a thought that puzzled him—he shook his head and muttered, “Aye, very well—be it so—my niece knows these matters better than I do.”

“I agree with that opinion, perfectly,” said Hemsworth, in an undertone, “and if Miss O'Donoghue will favor me with her company for a few minutes in the garden, I may be able to assist her to a clear understanding of the case.” Kate smiled assentingly, and Hemsworth moved towards the door and opened it; and then, as if after a momentary struggle with his own diffidence, he offered her his arm; this Kate declined, and they walked along, side by side.

They had nearly reached the middle of the garden before Hemsworth broke silence. At last he said, with a deep sigh—“I fear we are too late Miss O'Donoghue. The zeal, real or affected, of the country magistrates, has stimulated them to the utmost. There are spies over the whole country—he will inevitably be taken.”

Rate re-echoed the last words in an accent of deep anguish, and was silent.

“Yes,” resumed he, “escape is all but impossible—for even if he should get to sea, there are two cruisers on the look-out for any suspicious sail.

“And what if he were to surrender and stand his trial,” said Kate, boldly.

Hemsworth shook his head sorrowfully, but never spoke. “What object can it be with any Government to hunt down a rash, inexperienced youth, whose unguarded boldness has led him to ruin? On whom would such an example tell, or where would the lesson spread terror, save beneath that old roof yonder, where sorrows are rife enough already?”

“The correspondence with France—that's his danger. The intercourse with the disturbed party at home might be palliated by his youth—the foreign conspiracy admits of little apology.” “And what evidence have they of this?”

“Alas! but too much—the table of the Privy Council was actually covered with copies of letters and documents—some, written by himself—almost all, referring to him as a confidential and trusty agent of the cause. This cannot be forgiven him! When I heard a member of the Council say, 'Jackson's blood is dried up already,' I guessed the dreadful result of this young man's capture.”

Kate shuddered at these words, which were uttered in a faint tone, tremulous through emotion. “Oh, God,” she cried, “do not let this calamity fall upon us. Poverty, destitution, banishment, anything, save the death of a felon!”

Hemsworth pressed his handkerchief to his eyes, and looked away, as the young girl, with upturned face, muttered a brief but fervent prayer to heaven.

“But you, so gifted and experienced in the world's ways,” cried she, turning on him a glance of imploring meaning—“can you not think of anything? Is there no means, however difficult and dangerous, by which he might be saved? Could not the honor of an ancient house plead for him? Is there no pledge for the future could avail him.”

“There is but one such pledge—and that”—here he stopped and blushed deeply, and then, as if by an effort, resumed—“Do not, I beseech you, tempt me to utter what, if once spoken, decides the destiny of my life?”

He ceased, and she bent on him a look of wondering astonishment. She thought she had not heard him aright, and amid her fears of some vague kind, a faint hope struggled, that a chance of saving Mark yet remained. Perhaps, the mere expression of doubt her features assumed, was more chilling than even a look of displeasure, for Hemsworth's self possession, for several minutes, seemed to have deserted him; when, at last recovering himself, he said—

“Pray, think no more of my words, I spoke them rashly. I know of no means of befriending this young man. He rejected my counsels when they might have served him. I find how impossible it is to win confidence from those whose prejudices have been fostered in adverse circumstances. Now, I am too late—my humble task is merely to offer you some advice, which the day of calamity may recall to your memory. The Government intends to make a severe example of his case. I heard so much, by accident, from the Under Secretary. They will proceed, in the event of his conviction—of which there cannot be a doubt—to measures of confiscation regarding his property—timely intervention might be of service here.”

This additional threat of misfortune did not seem to present so many terrors to Kate's mind as he calculated on its producing. She stood silent and motionless, and appeared scarcely to notice his words.

“I feel how barbarous such cruelty is to an old and inoffensive parent,” said Hemsworth, “whose heart is rent by the recent loss of a son.”

“He must not die,” said Kate, with a hollow voice, and her pale cheek trembled with a convulsive motion. “Mark must be saved. What was the pledge you hinted at?”

Hemsworth's eyes flashed, and his lip curled with an expression of triumph. The moment, long sought, long hoped for, had at length arrived, which should gratify both his vengeance and his ambition. The emotion passed rapidly away, and his features assumed a look of subdued sorrow.

“I fear, Miss O'Donoghue,” said he, “that my hope was but like the straw which the drowning hand will grasp at; but, tortured as my mind has been by expedients, which more mature thought has ever discovered to be impracticable, I suffered myself to believe that possible, which my own heart forbids me to hope for.”

He waited a few seconds to give her an opportunity of speaking, but she was silent, and he went on—

“The guarantee I alluded to would be the pledge of one, whose loyalty to the Government stands above suspicion; one, whose services have met no requital, but whose reward only awaits the moment of demanding it; such a one as this might make his own character and fortune the recognizance for this young man's conduct, and truck the payment of his own services for a free pardon.”

“And who is there thus highly placed, and willing to befriend us.”

Hemsworth laid his hand upon his heart, and bowing with deep humility, uttered, in a low, faint voice—

“He who now stands before you!”

“You,” cried Kate, as clasping her hands in an ecstacy, she fixed her tearful eyes upon him. “You would do this?” Then growing suddenly pale, as a sick shudder came over her, she said, in a deep and broken voice, “At what price, sir?”

The steady gaze she fixed upon him seemed to awe and abash him, and it was with unfeigned agitation that he now spoke.

“A price which the devotion of a life long could not repay. Alas! a price I dare no more aspire to, than hope for.”

“Speak plainly, sir,” said Kate, in a firm, collected tone, “this is not a moment for misconception. What part have I to play in this compact, for by your manner I suppose you include me in it?”

“Forgive me, young lady, I have not courage to place the whole fortunes of my life upon one cast; already I feel the heaviness of heart that heralds in misfortune. I would rather live on with even this faint glimmer of hope than with the darkness of despair for ever.” His hands dropped powerless at his side, his head fell forward on his bosom, and as if without an effort of his will, almost unconsciously his lips muttered the words, “I love you.”

Had the accents been the sting of an adder they could not have called up an expression of more painful meaning than flashed over Kate's features.

“And this, then, is the price you hinted at—this was to be the compact.”

The proud look of scorn she threw upon him evoked no angry feeling in his breast, he seemed overwhelmed by sorrow, and did not dare even to look up.

“You judge me hardly, unfairly too; I never meant my intercession should be purchased—humble as I am, I should he still more unworthy, had I harhoured such a thought; my hope was this, to make my intervention available, I should show myself linked with the fortunes of that house I tried to save—it should be a case, where, personally, my own interest was at stake, and where my fortune, all I possessed in the world was in the scale, if you consented”—here he hesitated, faltered, and finally became silent, then passing his hands across his eyes, resumed more rapidly—“but I must not speak of this; alas! that my tongue should have ever betrayed it; you have forced my secret from me, and with it my happiness for ever—forget this, I beseech you forget that, even in a moment so unguarded, I dared to lift my eyes to the shrine my heart has worshipped. I ask no pledge, no compact, I will do my utmost to save this youth; I will spare no exertion or influence I possess with the Government; I will make his pardon the recompense due to myself, but if that be impossible, I will endeavour to obtain connivance at his escape, and all the price I ask for this is, your forgiveness of my presumption.”

Kate held out her hand towards him, while a smile of bewitching loveliness played over her features; “this is to be a friend indeed,” said she.

Hemsworth bent down his head till his lips rested on her fingers, and as he did so, the hot tears trickled on her hand, then suddenly starting up, he said, “I must lose no time; where shall I find your cousin?—in what part of the country has he sought shelter?”

“The shealing at the foot of Hungry mountain, he mentioned to Herbert as the rendezvous for the present.”

“Is he alone—has he no companion?”

“None, save, perhaps, the idiot boy who acts as his guide in the mountains.”

“Farewell then,” said Hemsworth, “you shall soon hear what success attends my efforts; farewell”—and, without waiting for more, he hastened from the spot, and was soon heard descending the causeway at a rapid pace.

Kate stood for a few moments lost in thought, and as the sound of the retreating hoofs aroused her, she looked up, and muttering to herself, “It was nobly done,” returned with slow steps to the house.

As Hemsworth spurred his horse, and urged him to his fastest speed, expressions of mingled triumph and vengeance burst from him at intervals—“Mine at last,” cried he—“mine in spite of every obstacle,—-Fortune is seldom so kind as this—vengeance and ambition both gratified together—me, whom they dispised for my poverty, and my low birth—that it should be my destiny to crush them to the dust!” These words were scarcely uttered, when his horse, pressed beyond his strength, stumbled over a rut in the road, and fell heavily to the ground, throwing his rider under him.

For a long time no semblance of consciousness returned, and the groom, fearing to leave him, had to wait for hours until a country car should pass, in which his wounded master might be laid. There came one by at last, and on this Hemsworth was laid, and brought back to “the Lodge.” Before he reached home, however, sense had so far returned, as, that he felt his accident was attended with no serious injury; the shock of the fall was the only circumstance of any gravity.

The medical man of Macroom was soon with him, and partly confirmed his own first impressions, but strictly enjoining rest and quiet, as in the event of any unusual excitement, the worst consequences might ensue. Hemsworth bore up under the injunction with all the seeming fortitude he could muster, but in his heart he cursed the misfortune that thus delayed the hour of his long-sought vengeance.

“This may continue a week, then?” cried he, impatiently.

The doctor nodded an assent.

“Two—three weeks, perhaps?”

“It will be a month, at least, before I can pronounce you out of danger,” said the physician, gravely.

“A month! Great Heaven!—a month! And what are the dangers you apprehend, in the event of my not submitting?”

“There are several, and very serious ones—-inflammation of the brain, fever, derangement even.”

“Yes, and are you sure this confinement will not drive me mad?” cried he, passionately; “will you engage that my brain will hold out against the agonizing thoughts that will not cease to torture me all this while?—or can you promise that events shall stand still for the moment when I can resume my place once more among men?”

The hurried and excited tone in which he spoke was only a more certain evidence of the truth of the medical fears; and, without venturing on any direct reply, the doctor gave some directions for his treatment, and withdrew.

The physician's apprehensions were well founded. The first few hours after the accident seemed to threaten nothing serious, but as night fell, violent headache and fever set in, and before day-break, he was quite delirious.

No sooner did the news reach Carrig-na-curra, than Kerry was dispatched to bring back tidings of his state; for, however different the estimation in which he was held by each, one universal feeling pervaded all—of sorrow for his disaster, Day after day, Sir Archy or Herbert went over to inquire after him; but some chronic feature of his malady seemed to have succeeded, and he lay in one unvarying condition of lethargic unconsciousness.

In this way, week after week glided over, and the condition of the country seemed like that of the sick man—one of slumbering apathy. The pursuit of Mark, so eagerly begun, had, as it were, died out. The proclamations of reward, torn down by the country people on their first appearance, were never renewed, and the military party, after an ineffectual search through Killarney, directed their steps northwards towards Tralee, and soon after returned to head-quarters. Still, with all these signs of security, Mark, whose short experience of life, had taught him caution, rarely ventured near Carrig-na-curra, and never passed more than a few moments beneath his father's roof.

While each had a foreboding that this calm was but the lull that preludes a storm, their apprehensions took very different and opposing courses, Kate's anxieties increased with each day of Hemsworth's illness; she saw the time gliding past in which escape seemed practicable, and yet knew not how to profit by the opportunity. Sir Archy, coupling the activity with which Mark's pursuit was first undertaken, with the sudden visit of Hemsworth to the country, and the abandonment of all endeavours to capture him, which followed on Hemsworth's accident, felt strong suspicion that the agent was the prime mover in the whole affair, and that his former doubts, were well founded regarding him; while Herbert, less informed than either on the true state of matters, formed opinions, which changed and vacillated with each day's experience.

In this condition of events, Sir Archy had gone over one morning alone, to inquire after Hemsworth, whose case, for some days preceding, was more than usually threatening—symptoms of violent delirium having succeeded to the dead lethargy in which he was sunk. Buried deeply in his conjectures as to the real nature of the part he was acting, and how far his motives tallied with honourable intentions, the old man plodded wearily on, weighing every word he could remember that bore upon events, and carefully endeavouring to divest his mind of every thing like a prejudice. Musing thus, he accidentally diverged from the regular approach, and turned off into a narrow path, which led to the back of “the Lodge;” nor was he aware of his mistake, till he saw, at the end of the walk, the large window of a room he remembered as belonging to the former building.. The sash was open, but the curtains, were drawn closely, so as to intercept any view from within or without. He observed these things, as fatigued by an unaccustomed exertion, he seated himself, for some moments' rest, on a bench beneath the trees.

A continuous, low, moaning sound soon caught his ear; he listened, and could distinctly hear the heavy breathing of a sick man, accompanied as it was by long-drawn sighs. There were voices, also, of persons speaking cautiously together, and the words, “He is asleep at last,” were plainly audible, after which the door closed, and all was still.

The solemn awe which great illness inspires was felt in all its force by the old man, as he sat like one spell-bound, and unable to depart. The labouring respiration that seemed to bode the ebb of life, made his own strong heart tremble, for he thought how, in his last hours, he might have wronged him. “Oh! if I have been unjust—if I have followed him to the last with ungenerous doubt—forgive me, Heaven; even now my own heart is half my accuser;” and his lips murmured a deep and fervent prayer, for that merciful benevolence, which, in his frail nature, he denied to another. He arose from his knees with a spirit calmed, and a courage stronger, and was about to retire, when a sudden cry from the sick room arrested his steps. It was followed by another more shrill and piercing still, and then a horrid burst of frantic laughter: dreadful as the anguish-wrung notes of suffering—how little do they seem in comparison, with the sounds of mirth from the lips of madness!

“There—there,” cried a voice, he at once knew as Hemsworth's—“that's him, that's your prisoner—make sure of him now; remember your orders, men!—do you hear; if they attempt a rescue, load with ball, and fire low—mind that, fire low. Ah! you are pale enough now;” and again the savage laughter rung out. “Yes, madam,” continued he, in a tone of insolent sarcasm, “every respect shall be shown him—a chair in the dock—a carpet on the gallows. You shall wear mourning for him—all the honeymoon, if you fancy it. Yes,” screamed he, in a wild and frantic voice, “this is like revenge! You struck me once—you called me coarse plebeian, too! We shall be able to see the blood you are proud of—aye, the blood! the blood!”—and then, as if worn out by exhaustion, he heaved a heavy sigh, and fell into deep moaning as before.

Sir Archy, who felt in the scene a direct acknowledgment of his appeal to Heaven, drew closer to the window, and listened. Gradually, and like one awaking from a heavy slumber, the sick man stretched his limbs, and drew a long sigh, whose groaning accent spoke of great debility and then, starting up in his bed, shouted— “It is, it is the King's warrant—who dares to oppose it. Ride in faster, men—faster; keep together here, the west side of the mountain. There—there, yonder, near the beach. Who was that spoke of pardon? Never; if he resists, cut him down. Ride for it, men, ride;” and in his mad excitement, he arose from his bed, and gained the floor. “There—that's him yonder; he has taken to the mountains; five hundred guineas to the hand that grasps him first,” and he tottered to the window, and tearing aside the curtain, looked out.

“Worn and wasted, with beard unshaven for weeks long, and eyes glistening with the lustre of insanity, the expression of his features actually chilled the heart's blood of the old man, as he stood almost at his side, and unable to move away. For a second or two Hemsworth gazed on the other, as if some struggling effort of recognition was labouring in his brain; and then, with a mad struggle he exclaimed—

“They were too late; the Council gave but eight days. I suppressed the proclamation in the south. Eight days—after that, no pardon—in this world at least”—and a fearful grin of malice convulsed his features; then with an altered accent, and a faint smile, from which sickness tore its oft-assumed dissimulation, he said, “I did every thing to persuade him to surrender—to accept the gracious favour of the crown; but he would not—no, he would not!”—and, with another burst of laughter, he staggered back into the room, and fell helpless on the floor. Sir Archy was in no compassionate mood at the moment, and without bestowing a thought on the sufferer, he hastened down the path, and with all the speed of which he was capable, returned to Carrig-na-curra.