Murtagh in the meantime wandered alone through the woods above the island. The defense of the hut was quite forgotten, and every other feeling was cut short by horror. The shock of Royal's death had been so sudden, so totally inconceivable beforehand, that it was only with great difficulty he could realize it now. His mind seemed in a measure benumbed. He went backwards and forwards through the woods with his hands thrust deep into his pockets. Dead leaves fluttered down upon his bare head and lay in golden drift on either side as his feet cut furrows through the gathered layers, sunlight glinted through the branches, a few birds were singing in the clear air; but it might have been snowing for all Murtagh knew to the contrary.

A kind of instinct to be with Winnie in her trouble led his footsteps after a time back to where she had been left, and the first outward sounds which woke him from his abstraction were her violent sobs. A thin screen of branches had prevented him from seeing her as he came up, but now he looked through it and saw her lying upon the ground, her arms thrown round Royal, her face buried in his dark curly coat, and her whole body shaken with emotion.

"Royal, darling, you're not dead! You can't be dead, really!" she cried passionately. Then, as her own sobs were the only sound and Royal lay stiff and cold beneath them, she wailed out, "How could he do it? How could he murder you?"

"Don't cry so, Win," he said, laying his face down on her head.

After a minute Winnie replied between her sobs: "Go away, please. I'd rather be here. You can't ever make him alive again!"

For one moment she raised a face so swollen and tear-stained that Murtagh was startled at the sight of it; but shaking back her hair she dropped again into her former position with such evident desire to be alone that Murtagh got up and went slowly into the wood.

He never remembered to have seen Winnie cry so and he could not bear to think of her alone there without any comfort. He did not venture back to her again, but he wandered about near where she lay, trying to think of something to do to comfort her. At last he could bear it no longer, and after watching her for a long time he called almost timidly:

"Win!"

She did not move. He called her a little louder, then a third and a fourth time, but still she gave no kind of answer. His heart stood still with a vague fear, and, scarcely knowing what he expected to see, he went close and gently lifted some of the brown hair that fell in confusion over her shoulder. She was fast asleep. Her head still rested upon Royal's shaggy curls, one arm was thrown round him, and the little face looked so white upon its rough black pillow that Murtagh bent very close before he could feel sure that she was only asleep. Then he could hardly have explained the relief that he felt. He thought he would go and get Nessa to come before she wakened again, so he left her and went towards the house.

But the day was far from finished yet; there was worse to come.

As he got down into the pleasure ground he was met by Rosie, her face swollen and stained with crying.

"Oh, Murtagh!" she exclaimed. "Where have you been all day? I've been hunting for you everywhere to tell you. Poor Frankie's dead; it came by the telegraph to-day."

She burst out crying again as she spoke, but Murtagh did not. He looked at her blankly as though he did not take in the sense of the words, and then he said, "What?"

"Frankie's dead," she repeated, "and they never thought it would be so sudden."

"Where's Nessa?" said poor Murtagh, with a confused, bewildered feeling that she would somehow contradict this.

"In the drawing-room," replied Rosie, and she turned and followed Murtagh.

"Don't you want to cry, Murtagh?" she asked curiously, after a minute. "Bobbo is crying so, poor fellow, up in his own room. It is so dreadful, too, isn't it, to think—" Here her tears overpowered her again and she spoke no more.

At the drawing-room door Murtagh was met by Nessa. He could not speak, and she, seeing that he knew all, just put her arms round him and kissed him tenderly.

For an instant he clung to her, and a great sob shook his body, but then he disengaged himself and looked up still dry-eyed.

"Winnie," he said; "come to her while she's asleep. And—and don't tell her, or she won't come away all night."

"You'll be cold. I'll go and fetch your—" He put his hands up to his temples with a dazed kind of expression as though he could not remember the words he wanted, and added with an effort—"your coat and things."

He rushed up the stairs and returned with Nessa's hat and jacket. He helped her into them, and then they set off together for the wood. Nessa stretched out her hand for his, and they went hand in hand the whole way, but something in Murtagh's manner prevented a word from being spoken.

It was almost dark when they reached the spot where Royal lay. They found Winnie still lying beside him, but she was awake now and seemed calmer. She sat up when she saw them; Nessa knelt down beside her and kissed her; and though her tears began to flow again they were quieter and more natural.

"You must come home now, dear," said Nessa after a little time, gently laying her cheek against the troubled face that rested upon her shoulder, and almost unconsciously tightening the clasp of her arms as she thought of the new trouble waiting at home.

Murtagh had stood watching them in silence, and now he only said, "We will cover him with branches." He picked a branch of fir as he spoke and gently laid it upon Royal's body. But there was in his tone such resolute putting on one side of his own grief, such perfect patient tenderness for Winnie, that Nessa could contain her tears no longer, and she fairly sobbed.

She recovered herself immediately, and her tears served to compose Winnie, who kissed her and got up and helped Murtagh to put the covering upon Royal. The last branch was soon laid upon his head, and then Winnie went slowly away with Nessa. But Murtagh stayed behind and plunged again into the wood, where flinging himself upon the ground, he gave way to all his grief. It was not only grief for Frankie which brought those short fierce sobs and then the long bursts of tears—tears that ran down unheeded into the ground on which he lay. It was everything altogether that made the child so supremely miserable.

How long he lay there he did not know, but night had come when at last sick and exhausted he sat up and leaned against a tree.

It was time to be going home, but he could not face the schoolroom full of children. He would sleep there, he thought; and he was lying down again at the foot of the tree, when it occurred to him that the hut would be a better place. So he got up, and with some difficulty, because of the darkness, he crossed the river and groped his way to where the little island path made an opening in the thick brushwood. He drew himself up the bank and advanced slowly, stretching out his hands to feel for the door. He groped about unable, of course, to find it, till presently his foot struck against something, a covered fire apparently, for a shower of sparks flew upwards. He jumped to one side, and a bright blaze flaming out displayed to his astounded eyes the scattered rubbish, which was all that remained of their beloved hut. The stones had been taken away, but the door and broken pieces of the roof lay there upon the ground.

"The coward! he has taken advantage of—"

"Ay, and it isn't only your little play-place he's turned you out of," said a familiar voice behind him in the bushes, "but my father and mother's to be turned out of the place they've held backwards and forwards this hundred years, because they can't pay the rent since it's riz upon them last Michaelmas."

Murtagh started and turned round to see Pat O'Toole standing in the full blaze of the firelight.

"Oh, Pat, Pat," he cried, springing towards him, "you've come back at last!"

"I couldn't stop away at all," he replied. "I was up in the mountains, and one and another of the boys gave me food, but I used to come down o' nights, an' one night my mother was out fetching the goat, and the tears were running down as she walked along, and so I couldn't help it at all, but I just up and told her I was there. And look here, Mr. Murtagh," he continued, dropping his voice and coming closer, "the boys say he isn't a bit o' good, and now he's riz the rents there's the Dalys'll have to go out, an' the Cannons; and there's many'll die o' distress with the winter coming on, and the bad potatoes an' all; an' I've been watchin' for you because I thought ye'd help me. And look here, Mr. Murtagh, if ye'll get me a gun some way, I'll shoot him and ha' done with it."

Pat's voice sank into a fierce, hoarse whisper as he ended, and his face was bent down close to Murtagh's. Murtagh did not answer at once; he could hardly believe that he was not dreaming, and Pat continued: "It's a benefactor you'll be to the country. There's many and many a one'll bless you far an' wide. There's Jim Cannon, brother to Cannon down beyant there, has his wife and children in the Union, and he's wanderin' about, daren't come home and do a bit o' decent work because Plunkett's informed against him for a Fenian.

"And there's Mike Coyle and his wife and children had to turn out and shift for themselves, because he wouldn't let the old man keep them with him at home in his own place. And there's my mother and father turned out of a place we've had from one to another this hundred year; and Johnny Worsted taken from his work, and his old father and mother dependin' upon him, and sent to prison, for nothing in the world but knocking over a couple o' little hares. And look now, Mr. Murtagh," he added, dropping his voice again to a cautious whisper, "if he was killed out o' the way it'd all come right, and I told the boys how we were bound together in a tribe like, and you'd never fail us in a pinch. There's many and many a heart'll be made glad through the country. Isn't he oppressin' every one of us, and changin' all the old ways that was good enough for them as was better than him? And look at yerselves; isn't it just the same way with yez? Isn't he tyrannizin' over yez, and doesn't mind a word anybody spakes to him, but only havin' everything his own way? He doesn't care for any one's feelin's! Just look at the way he massacrated Miss Winnie's beautiful dog this mornin', and she nearly cried her heart out over it. But he don't care, he'd do it again to-morrow; and only took advantage of ye bein' thinkin' o' that, to come and pull down your hut that was built before ever he came here."

Pat's words stirred up all the fierce passion of last night, and the feelings with which he had heard Nessa's story surged up again in his heart. As he listened the blood went coursing swiftly through his veins. Was not this a way to end it all? All the country round was suffering as they were. The people looked to him to help them; would not this be doing something indeed for freedom? He never in the least realized what it was; how could he, a child of eleven? But it presented itself vaguely to him as a grand and terrible action. Something in him spoke loudly against Pat's reasoning, but so thoroughly was his whole nature warped by the excitement of the last month that he mistook his true instinct for cowardice, asking himself if John of Procida would have hesitated so.

And while his decision was hanging thus in the balance, Pat brought before him the picture of Winnie's grief and Mr. Plunkett's indifference. The remembrance flashed through his mind of Hickey's words in the morning—"It would serve old Plunkett right to be shot with the very same gun," and with a sudden gust of passion he decided.

"Yes," he said, "I'll do it! You shall have the very gun he shot Royal with."

"I knew ye'd help us!" replied Pat, exultingly. "I told the boys you wouldn't fail us; ye have too much o' the real old spirit in ye."

It was done; he had given his promise; but if he had only hesitated one minute longer all might have been different. Pat had only just answered when a sound of scrambling on the other bank made Murtagh exclaim in a hurried whisper, "Hide!" and there was barely time for Pat to conceal himself in the bushes before Bobbo appeared followed by Nessa.

Poor little Nessa looked very white and tired, and a faint struggle to smile died away in the attempt.

"I was nervous," she said; "I could not go to bed while you were out, so Bobbo came with me. He thought you would be here. Will you not come in now?"

"Yes," said Murtagh, "I'll come; you go on first."

Nessa looked at him in some surprise. She had expected to find him prostrated with grief in some out-of-the-way corner, but here he was standing up by a blazing fire, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes bright with excitement. He really was incomprehensible.

"Our hut gone!" exclaimed Bobbo in dismay, standing still and surveying the ruins. "He can't have been so mean—To take it to-day!" And with the remembrance of all the day's troubles the tears came into his eyes.

"Yes," said Murtagh. Then in a hurried loud voice he continued: "Never mind; let us go home. Get on the stones and help Nessa down."

His manner half frightened Nessa; she wondered whether he were ill. She followed Bobbo, however, and Pat, putting his head out from his place of concealment, whispered to Murtagh:

"To-morrow night, here."

"All right, here!" Murtagh replied, and he hastened after the others.

Nessa put her hand through his arm as they walked along. Murtagh knew that she meant it partly as a caress, and he almost wished she would not. He was in no mood for caresses. They spoke little. Murtagh asked what time it was, and was told it must be eleven now. They had waited till ten, Nessa said, before they started to look for him.

As they were nearing home, Murtagh roused himself with an effort from his thoughts.

"Poor Nessa!" he said; "you must be nearly dead tramping about like this. Why did you come for me?—I'd have done very well out there."

"I couldn't have you out there. I did not know where you were; I was frightened." And there was a little tremble in Nessa's voice that melted away a good deal of Murtagh's excitement.

In the schoolroom he found a little table prepared for supper.

"You have eaten nothing all day," said Nessa, and she insisted upon his sitting down and trying to eat while she made some tea from a kettle that stood boiling on the hob.

To please her he tried to eat, and under the influence of her gentle ways and little tender cares he grew quieter and quieter. At last he asked hesitatingly "if she had told Winnie yet?"

"Yes," she replied. "It was no use to keep it for the poor child to hear in the morning. When she was in bed, I told her."

Murtagh sat looking into the fire for a few minutes with tears glistening in his eyes, and then he asked:

"What did she—"

"Poor little thing!—she could not believe it at first, and then, then it was very sad. She seemed to feel so much about Frankie having given her Royal; it made it worse for her. She has cried herself to sleep again now. I went in to look at her before we came out."

"I think I'll go to bed," he said in a choked voice.

"Good night, dear!" and she held him tight in her arms for a moment as she kissed him.

Her tenderness brought back all the soft natural grief for his cousin, and he cried himself to sleep with his mind full of thoughts of Frankie's dear loving ways.