Sir Archy's manner, so precise and measured in every occasion of life, had undergone a very marked change before he arrived at Carrig-na-curra; exclamations broke from him at every moment, mingled with fervently expressed hopes, that he might not be yet too late to rescue Mark from his peril. The agitation of his mind and the fatigue of his exertions completely overcame him; and when he reached the house, he threw himself down upon a seat, utterly exhausted.

“Are you unwell, my dear uncle?” broke from Kate and Herbert together, as they stood at either side of his chair.

“Tired, wearied, heated, my dear children; nothing more. Send me Kerry here; I want to speak to him.”

Kerry soon entered, and Sir Archy, beckoning him to his side, whispered a few words rapidly into his ear. Kerry made no reply, but hastened from the room, and was soon after seen hurrying down the causeway.

“I see, my dear uncle,” whispered Kate, with a tremulous accent—“I see you have bad tidings for us this morning—he is worse.”

“Waur he canna be,” muttered Sir Archy, with a significance that gave the words a very equivocal meaning.

“But there is still hope. They told us yesterday that to-morrow would be the crisis of the malady—the twentieth day since his relapse.”

“Yes, yes!” said the old man, who, not noticing her remark, pursued aloud the track of his own reflections. “Entrapped—ensnared—I see it all now. And only eight days given!—and even of these to be kept in ignorance. Poor fellow, how you have been duped.”

“But this delirium may pass away, uncle,” said Kate, who, puzzled at his vague expressions, sought to bring him again to the theme of Hemsworth's illness.

“Then comes the penalty, lassie,” cried he, energetically. “The Government canna forgie a rebel, as parents do naughty children, by the promise of doing better next time. When a daring scheme—but wait a bit, here's Kerry. Come to the window, man; come over here,” and he called him towards him.

Whatever were the tidings Kerry brought, Sir Archy seemed overjoyed by them; and taking Herbert's arm, he hurried from the room, leaving the O'Donoghue and Kate in a state of utter bewilderment.

“I'm afraid, my sweet niece, that Hemsworth's disease is a catching one. Archy has a devilish wild, queer look about him to-day,” said the O'Donoghue, laughing.

“I hope he has heard no bad news, sir. He is seldom so agitated as this. But what can this mean? Here comes a chaise up the road. See, it has stopped at the gate, and there is Kerry hastening down with a portmantua.”

Sir Archy entered as she spoke, dressed for the road, and approaching his brother-in-law's chair, whispered a few words in his ear.

“Great heaven protect us!” exclaimed the O'Donoghue, falling back, half unconscious, into his seat. While, turning to Kate, Sir Archy took her hand in both of his, and said—

“My ain dear bairn, I have no secrets from you; but time is too short to say much now. Enough, if I tell you Mark is in danger—the greatest and most imminent. I must hasten up to Dublin and see the Secretary, and, if possible, the Lord Lieutenant. It may be necessary, perhaps, for me to proceed to London. Herbert is already off to the mountains, to warn Mark of his peril. If he can escape till I return, all may go well yet. Above all things, however, let no rumour of my journey escape. I'm only going to Macroom, or Cork, mind that, and to be back to-morrow evening, or next day.”

A gesture from Kerry, who stood on the rock above the road, warned him that all was ready; and, with an affectionate but hurried adieu, he left the room, and gaining the high road, was soon proceeding towards Dublin, at the fastest speed of the posters.

“Them's the bastes can do it,” said Kerry, as he watched them, with the admiration of a connoisseur; “and the little one wid the rat-tail isn't the worst either.”

“Where did that chaise come from, Kerry?” cried the O'Donoghue, who could not account for the promptitude of Sir Archy's movements.

“'Twas with Doctor Dillon from Macroom it came, sir; and it was to bring him back there again; but Sir Archibald told me to give the boy a pound note, to make a mistake, and come over here for himself. That's the way of it.”

While we leave the O'Donoghue and his niece to the interchange of their fears and conjectures regarding the danger which they both concurred in believing had been communicated to Sir Archy by Hemsworth, we must follow Herbert, who was now on his way to the mountains, to apprize Mark that his place of concealment was already discovered, and that measures for his capture were taken in a spirit that indicated a purpose of personal animosity.

Herbert knew little more than this, for it was no part of Sir Archy's plan to impart to any one his discovery of Hemsworth's treachery, lest, in the event of his recovery, their manner towards him would lead him to a change of tactique. Hemsworth was too cunning an adversary to concede any advantage to. Indeed, the only chance of success against him lay in taking the opportunity of his present illness, to anticipate his movements. Sir Archy, therefore, left the family at Carrig-na-curra in ignorance of this man's villainy, as a means of lulling him into security. The expressions that fell from him, half unconsciously, in the drawing-room, fortunately contributed to this end, and induced both the O'Donoghue and Kate to believe that, whatever the nature of the tidings Sir Archy had learned, their source was no other than Hemsworth himself, of whose good intentions towards Mark no suspicion existed.

Herbert's part was limited to the mere warning of Mark, that he should seek some more secure resting-place; but what kind the danger was, from whom or whence it came, the youth knew nothing. He was not, indeed, unaware of Mark's political feelings, nor did he undervalue the effect his principles might produce upon his actions. He knew him to be intrepid, fearless, and determined; and he also knew how the want of some regular pursuit or object in life had served farther to unsettle his notions and increase the discontent he felt with his condition. If Herbert did not look up to Mark with respect for the superior qualities of mind, there were traits in his nature that inspired the sentiment fully as strongly. The bold rapidity with which he anticipated and met a danger, the fertile resources he evinced at moments when most men stand appalled and terror-struck, the calmness of his spirit when great peril was at hand, showed that the passionate and wayward nature was the struggle which petty events create, and not the real germ of his disposition.

Herbert foresaw that such a character had but to find the fitting sphere for its exercise, to win an upward way; but he was well aware of the risks to which it exposed its possessor. On this theme his thoughts dwelt the entire day, as he trod the solitary path among the mountains; nor did he meet with one human thing along that lonely road. At last, as evening was falling, he drew near the glen which wound along the base of the mountain, and as he was endeavouring to decide on the path, a low whistle attracted him. This, remembering it was the signal, he replied to, and the moment after Terry crept from a thick cover of brushwood, and came towards him.

“I thought I'd make sure of you before I let you pass, Master Herbert,” cried he, “for I couldn't see your face, the way your head was hanging down. Take the little path to the left, and never turn till you come to the white-thorn tree—then straight up the mountain for a quarter of a mile or so, till you reach three stones, one over another. From that spot you'll see the shealing down beneath you.”

“My brother is there now?” said Herbert, enquiringly.

“Yes; he never leaves it long now; and he got a bit of a fright the other evening, when the French schooner came into the bay.”

“A French schooner here, in the bay?”

“Ay, just so; but with an English flag flying. She landed ten men at the point, and then got out to sea as fast as she could. She was out of sight before dark.”

“And the men—what became of them?”

“They staid an hour or more with Master Mark. One of them was an old friend, I think; for I never saw such delight as he was in to see your brother. He gave him two books, and some paper, and a bundle—I don't know what was in it—and then they struck off towards Kenmare Bay, by a road very few know in these parts.”

All these particulars surprised and interested Herbert not a little;—for although far from implicitly believing the correctness of Terry's tidings, as to the vessel being a French one, yet the event seemed not insignificant as showing that Mark had friends, who were aware of his present place of concealment. Without wasting further time, however, he bade Terry good-bye, and started along the path down the glen.

Following Terry's directions, Herbert found the path, which, in many places was concealed by loose furze bushes, evidently to prevent detection by strangers, and at last, having gained the ridge of the mountain, perceived the little shealing at a distance of some hundred feet beneath him. It was merely a few young trees, covered over with loose sods, which, abutting against the slope of the hill, opened towards the sea, from whence the view extended along thirty miles of coast on either hand.

At any other moment, the glorious landscape before him would have engrossed Herbert's entire attention. The calm sea, over which night was slowly stealing—the jutting promontories of rock, over whose sides the white foam was splashing—the tall dark cliffs, pierced by many a' cave, through which the sea roared like thunder—all these caught his thoughts but for a second, and already with bounding steps he hurried down the steep, where the next moment a scene revealed itself, of far deeper interest to his heart.

Through the roof of the shealing, from which, in many places, the dry sods had fallen, he discovered his brother, stretched upon the earthen floor of the hut, intently gazing on a large map, which lay widespread before him. The figure was indeed Mark's. The massive head, on either side of which, in flowing waves, the long and locky hair descended, there was no mistaking. But the costume was one Herbert saw for the first time. It was a simple uniform of blue and white, with a single silver epaulette, and a sword, hilted with the same metal. The shako was of dark fur, and ornamented with a large bouquet of tri-colored ribbons, whose gay and flaunting colours streamed with a strange contrast along the dark earthen floor. Amid all his terror for what these emblems might portend, his heart bounded with pride at the martial and handsome figure, as, leaning on one elbow, he traced with the other hand the lines upon the map. Unable to control his impatience longer, he cried out—

“Mark, my brother!” and the next moment they were in each other's arms.

“You passed Terry on the mountain? He was at his post, I trust?” said Mark, anxiously.

“Yes, but for his directions I could never have discovered the path.”

“All's well, then. Until I hear a certain signal from him, I fear nothing. The fellow seems neither to eat nor sleep. At least since I've been here, he has kept watch night and day in the mountains.”

“He always loved you, Mark.”

“He did so; but now it is not me he thinks of. His whole heart is in the cause—higher and nobler than a mere worthless life like mine.”;

“Poor fellow! he is but half-witted at best,” said Herbert.

“The more reason for his fidelity now,” said Mark, bitterly. “The men of sense are traitors to their oaths, and false to their friends. The enterprise cannot reckon, save on the fool or the madman. I know the taunt you hint at, as——”

“My dearest brother,” cried Herbert, with streaming eyes.

“My own dear Herbert, forgive me,” said Mark, as he flung his arm round his neck. “These bursts of passion come over me after long and weary thoughts. I am tired to-day. Tell me, how are they all at Carrig-na-curra?”

“Well, and, I would say, happy, Mark, were it not for their anxieties about you. My uncle heard some news to-day so threatening in its nature, that he has set out for Dublin post haste, and merely wrote these few lines, which he gave me for you before he started.”

Mark read the paper twice over, and then tearing it, threw the fragments at his feet, while he muttered—

“I cannot, I must not leave this.”

“But your safety depends on it, Mark—so, my uncle pressed upon me. The danger is imminent, and, he said, fatal.”

“So would it be, were I to leave my post. I cannot tell you, Herbert—I dare not reveal to you what our oath forbids me:—but here I must remain.”

“And this dress, Mark—why increase the risk you run by a uniform which actually designates treason?”

“Who will dare to tell me so?” cried Mark, impetuously. “The uniform is that of a French grenadier—the service whose toil is glory, and whose cause is liberty. It is enough that I do not wear it without authority. You can satisfy yourself on that head soon. Read this,” and he unfolded a paper, which, bearing the arms and seal of the French Republic, purported to be a commission as Lieutenant in Hoche's own regiment of grenadiers, conferred on Mark O'Donoghue in testimony of esteem for his fidelity to the cause of Irish independence. “You are surprised that I can read the language, Herbert,” said he, smiling; “but I have laboured hard this summer, and, with Kate's good aid, have made some progress.”

“And is your dream of Irish independence brought so low as this, Mark—that the freedom you speak of must be won by an alien's valour?”

“They are no aliens, whose hearts beat alike for liberty. Language, country, seas may divide us, but we are brothers in the glorious cause of humanity. Their swords are with us now, as would be ours for them, did the occasion demand them. Besides, we must teach the traitors, boy, that we can do without them—that if her own sons are false, Ireland has friends as true; and then, woe to them who have betrayed her. Oh, my brother, the brother of my heart, how would I kneel in thankfulness to heaven, if the same hopes that stirred within me were yours also. If the genius you possess were enlisted in the dear cause of your own country—if we could go forth together, hand in hand, and meet danger side by side, as now we stand.”

“My love for you would make the sacrifice, Mark,” said Herbert, as the tears rolled heavily along his cheek; “but my convictions, my reason, my religion, alike forbid it.”

“Your religion, Herbert?—did I hear you aright?”

“You did. I am a Protestant.”

Mark fell back as his brother spoke; a cold leaden tinge spread over his features, and he seemed like one labouring against the sickness of an ague.

“Oh, is it not time!” cried he, as he clasped his hands above his head, and shook them in an agony of emotion—“is it not time to strike the blow, ere every tie that bound us to the land should be rent asunder; rank, place, wealth, and power they have despoiled us of; our faith degraded, our lineage scoffed, and now the very links of blood divided—We have not brothers left us!”

Herbert bent down his head upon his knees, and wept bitterly.

“Who will tell me I have not been tried, now?” continued Mark, in a strain of impassioned sorrow—“deceived on every hand—robbed of my heritage—my friends all false—my father”—he stopped short, for at the moment Herbert looked up, and their eyes met.

“What of our father, Mark?”

“My brain was wandering then,” said Mark, in a broken voice. “Once more I ask forgiveness: we are brothers still; if we be but true of heart to Him who knows all hearts, He will not suffer us to be divided. Can you remain a while with me, Herbert?—I know you don't mind a rough bivouac.”

“Yes, Mark, I'll not leave you. All is well at home, and they will guess what cause detained me.” So saying, the two brothers sat down side by side, and with hands clasped firmly in each other, remained sunk in silent thought.

The whole night through they talked together. It was the first moment, for many a long year, since they had unburdened their hearts like brothers, and in the fulness of their affection the most secret thoughts were revealed, save one topic only, of which neither dared to speak, and while each incident of the past was recalled, and friends were mentioned, Mark never once alluded to Kate, nor did Herbert utter the name of Sybella Travers.

Of his plans for the future, Mark made no secret; he had accepted a commission in the French army, on the understanding that an invasion of Ireland was determined on, in the event of which, his services would be of some value. He hoped to reach France by the schooner, which, after landing her cargo near the mouth of the Shannon, was to return at once to Cherbourg; once there, he was to enter the service, and learn its discipline.

“I have made my bargain with them; my face is never to turn from England, till Ireland be free; after that I am theirs, to march on the Rhine or the Danube—where they will. Personal ambition I have none!—to serve as a simple grenadier in the ranks of that army, that shall first plant the standard of liberty here; such is my only compact. Speak to me of defeat or disaster, if you will; but do not endeavour to persuade me against an enterprise I have resolved to go through with, nor try to argue with me, where my impulses are stronger than my reason.”

In this strain Mark spoke, and while Herbert listened in sorrow, he knew too well his brother's nature, to offer a word of remonstrance in opposition to his determination.

Mark, on his side, led his brother to talk of many of his own plans for the future, where another and a very different ambition was displayed.

Herbert had entered the lists where intellect and genius are the weapons, and in his early triumphs had conceived that passion for success, which once indulged, only dies with life itself. The day broke upon them, thus conversing, and already the sunlight was streaming over the western ocean, as they lay down side by side, and slept.