The paroxysm which Sir Archibald had witnessed, formed the crisis of Hemsworth's malady; and on the evening of the same day, his disease had so far abated of its violence, that his delirium had left him, and excessive debility was now the only symptom of great danger remaining. With the return of his faculties, came back his memory, clear and unclouded, of every incident up to the very moment of his accident; and as he lay, weak and wasted on his bed, his mind reverted to the plans and projects of which his illness had interrupted the accomplishment. The excitement of the theme seemed rather to serve than be hurtful to him; and the consciousness of returning health gave a spring to his recovery; fatigue of thought induced deep sleep, and he awoke on the following day refreshed and recruited.

The lapse of time in illness is, probably, one of the most painful thoughts that await upon recovery. The lethargy in which we have been steeped simulates death; while the march of events around us show how insignificant our existence is, and how independently of us the work of life goes on.

When Wylie was summoned to his master's bed-side, the first question put to him was, what day of the month it was? and his astonishment was, indeed, great, as he heard it was the 16th of December, and that he had been above two months on a sickbed.

“Two months here!” cried he; “and what has happened since?”

“Scarcely anything, sir,” said Wylie, well knowing the meaning of the question. “The country is quiet—the people tranquil. Too much so, perhaps, to last. The young O'Donoghue has not been seen up the glen for several weeks past; but his brother passes frequently from Carrig-na-curra to the coast, and back again, so that there is little doubt of his still being in his old hiding-place. Talbot—Barrington I mean—has been here again, too.”

“Barrington!—-what brings him back? I thought he was in France.”

“The story goes that he landed at Bantry with a French agent. One thing is certain, the fellow had the impudence to call here and leave his card for you, one day I was at Macroom.”

“That piece of boldness bodes us no good,” said Hemsworth. “What of the others? Who has called here from Carrig-na-curra?”

“A messenger every day; sometimes twice in the same day.”

“A messenger!—not one of the family?”

“For several weeks they have had no one to come. Sir Archy and the younger brother are both from home.”

“Where, then, is Sir Archy?” said Hemsworth, anxiously.

“That would seem a secret to every one. He left this one morning at a moment's notice, taking the chaise that brought the doctor here. The post-boy pretended he was discharged; but I say that the excuse was made up, and that the fellow was bribed. On reaching Macroom, the old man got fresh horses, and started for Cork.”

“And what's the report in the country, Wylie?”

“There are two stories. One, that he heard some rumours of an accusation against himself, for intriguing with the United people, and thought best to get over to Scotland for a while.”

“That's folly; what is the other rumour?”

“A more likely one,” said Wylie, as he threw a shrewd glance beneath his half-closed eye-lids. “They say that he determined to go up to Dublin, and see the Lord Lieutenant, and ask him for a free pardon for Mark.”

Hemsworth sprung up in the bed at these words, as if he had been stung.

“And who says this, Wylie?”

“I believe I was the first that said so myself,” said Wylie, affecting modesty; “when Kerry told me, that the old man packed up a court dress and a sword.”

“You're right, Sam; there's not a doubt of it. How long is this ago?”

“Five weeks on Tuesday last.”

“Five weeks!—five weeks lost already! And have you heard what has been done by him?—what success he's met with?”

“No, sir; but you can soon know something about it yourself.”

“How do you mean?—I don't understand you.”

“These are the only two letters he has written as yet. This, one came on Saturday. I always went down in the mornings to Mary M'Kelly's, before the bag came in, and as she could not read over well, I sorted the letters for her myself, and slipped in these among your own.”

Hemsworth and his companion exchanged looks. Probably never did glances more rapidly reveal the sentiments of two hearts. Each, well knew the villainy of the ether; but Hemsworth for the first time saw himself in another's power, and hesitated how far the advantage of the discovery was worth the heavy price he should pay for it; besides that the habits of his life made him regard the breach of confidence, incurred in reading another man's letter, in a very different light from his underbred associate, and he made no gesture to take them from his hand.

“This has an English post-mark,” said Wylie, purposely occupying himself with the letter, to avoid noticing Hemsworth's hesitation.

“You have not broken the seals, I hope,” said Hemsworth, faintly.

“No, sir; I knew better than that,” replied Wylie, with well-assumed caution. “I knew your honour had a right to it, if you suspected the correspondence was treasonable, because you're in the Commission, and it's your duty; but I could'nt venture it, of myself.”

“I'm afraid your law is not very correct, Master Wylie,” said Hemsworth, who felt by no means certain as to the sincerity of the opinion.

“It's good enough for Glenflesk, anyhow,” said the fellow, boldly; for he saw that in Hemsworth's present nervous condition, audacity might succeed where subserviency would not.

“By which you mean that we have the case in our own hands, Wylie; well, you're not far wrong in that; still, I cannot break open a letter.

“Well, then, I'm not so scrupulous when my master's interests are concerned;” and so saying, he tore open each in turn, and threw them on the bed. “There, sir, you can transport me for the offence whenever you like.”

“You are a strange fellow, Sam,” said Hemsworth, whose nerves were too much shaken by illness, to enable him to act with his ordinary decision, and he took up one of the letters, and perused it slowly. “This is merely an announcement of his arrival in Dublin; he has waited upon, but not seen the Secretary—-finds it difficult to obtain an audience—press of parliamentary business for the new session—no excitement about the United party. What tidings has the other? Ha!—. what's this?”—-and his thin and haggard face flushed scarlet. “Leave me, Sam; I must have a little time to consider this. Come back to me in an hour.”

Wylie said not a word, but moved towards the door; while in his sallow features a savage smile of malicious triumph shone.

As Hemsworth flattened out the letter before him on the bed, his eyes glistened and sparkled with the fire of aroused intelligence: the faculties which, during his long illness, had lain in abeyance, as if refreshed and invigorated by rest, were once more excited to their accustomed exercise; and over that face, pale and haggard by sickness, a flush of conscious power stole, lighting up every lineament and feature, and displaying the ascendancy of mental effort over mere bodily infirmity.

“And so this Scotchman dares to enter the list with me,” said he, with a smile of contemptuous meaning; “let him try it.”