Next morning poor Royal was buried.

With many tears he was taken across the river and laid in his last resting-place. The sobs that escaped from Winnie as the earth was thrown in upon him shook Murtagh's heart and stirred up again his bitter indignation against Mr. Plunkett, but he stood silent beside her till the last shovelful of earth was patted down into its place. Good-natured Hickey had begged a rose-tree from Bland, which he planted for them at the head of the grave; then he took his tools and trudged away, telling them not to fret. Bobbo called Rosie to see the desolation of the hut, and Winnie and Murtagh were left standing by the grave alone.

"Don't stay here, Win," said Murtagh, putting his arm round her neck. "It will make you so dreadfully miserable. Come away into the wood, and let us be together. And look here, Win," he added, the indignation breaking out at last. "There's one thing, you'll be well paid out. He's going to get what he deserves at last."

"That won't do any good," returned Winnie, disconsolately. "But I hope he will," she added with sudden anger. "It will serve him right. Oh, Murtagh, how could any one be so cowardly and so cruel to shoot at him when he was in the water like that?—so close to him he couldn't possibly miss. And then—then Royal looked as if he thought I'd sent him in on purpose, and he couldn't understand when I told him we didn't; and—and Frankie said he knew I'd never let any one hurt him; and now Frankie's dead, and I can't tell him about it, either; and oh, Myrrh, doesn't it seem as if everybody was dying?" The end of Winnie's sentence was almost lost in tears.

The two children spent the rest of the morning walking up and down together, their conversation a confused medley of grief, anger, and sad, loving recollections of the doings of their two dead.

Towards the end anger predominated. Murtagh repeated to Winnie all that Pat had told him of the sufferings of the people about. He told her, too, that Pat was in hiding at home; that he was going to be revenged on Mr. Plunkett, and that he (Murtagh) was going to help him. He did not tell her exactly what he was going to do, something within him prevented him from speaking of that. Winnie listened eagerly.

"I do hope he will succeed," she said; "and just fancy, Myrrh, if he does set all the people free, he will be just like John of Procida that Nessa was telling us about."

And for the moment Murtagh wished that he were himself the one who was to shoot Mr. Plunkett.

Theresa Curran, coming up to the Castle on a message, met them in the avenue, and courtesying deeply told them that "they down at the village was all very glad to think it was Mr. Murtagh now would be master over them some day."

Murtagh did not understand what she meant, and when she explained that "sure, after the master, it'll belong to you and yours now," he exclaimed in angry surprise:

"You mean that you're glad! Aren't you ashamed to be so cruel and unkind?"

Theresa saw that she had made a mistake, and replied in some confusion: "'Deed, an' we're all very sorry for him, poor little gentleman, but we'll be very glad to have you reign over us, Mr. Murtagh, dear. There'll be a stop put then, maybe, to some o' the doings goes on now. Every one hunted out o' their homes, and no more account made of it than if they was wild animals."

"There!" said Murtagh; "they all say just the same thing."

"And I don't wonder," replied Bobbo; "when he could do what he did yesterday, he could do anything. Why, if it wasn't for him being so unjust, poor Royal would be safe away with you, instead of—"

"I don't think he has ever done anything but make people unhappy all his life!" said Winnie, her tears overflowing again as she spoke. "Even poor little Frankie, he made him miserable the last time he was here, and if it hadn't been for him, we might have been there at least to say good-by."

Still an hour afterwards, when Winnie and Bobbo, feeling that they must do something, went to see the cows milked, and Murtagh was left alone, misgivings, which took the form of a natural shrinking from what he was going to do, assailed his mind. He tried to combat his doubts. This was a right and a great thing to do. It was a just retribution that Mr. Plunkett should be shot with the very gun he had used against Royal. All the people would be able to spend this winter in their homes. If Frankie could know things, he would be glad.

Instinctive right was strong enough within him, however, to make it impossible for him to feel quite clear, and it was with a sense of relief that he saw the carriage coming up the avenue, and ran to the hall door to meet it.

There were a great many parcels to be taken out, and before they were all disposed of Winnie and Bobbo made their appearance.

"Oh, Winnie!" cried Rosie, "Nessa has chosen such pretty hats for us! Ellie is to have a little round one, but we are to have felts turned up at one side, with a long black feather going right down over our hair."

Winnie looked at her in astonishment. "I do believe," she began contemptuously; but whatever she had been going to say was apparently too bitter, for she broke off suddenly and turned away while her eyes filled with tears.

Rosie reddened so painfully that Nessa felt quite sorry for her, and giving her some parcels asked her to take them to her bedroom; Rosie escaped up-stairs, and Nessa soon followed to take off her things.

Murtagh had decided yesterday evening that the time to possess himself of the gun would be while Mr. Plunkett was down at supper. And as that hour approached all doubts were thrown aside, and his heart beat high in anticipation.

It was already dusk, so he went out into the park, and hovered about near the Red House till the ringing of the supper bell announced that his time had come. Then it was the work of a minute to climb on the roof of the dairy, and from thence into Mr. Plunkett's dressing-room, the window of which was shutterless. He knew the gun was kept in a cupboard in the corner among walking-sticks and fishing-tackle. He found it in its usual place, also the cartridges belonging to it, possessed himself of both, and noiselessly let himself down again on to the dairy roof. In another minute he was safe outside the garden, hurrying away towards the island.

It was the first time in his life that he had held a gun in his hands, and the touch of the steel barrel made him shudder. He was not quite free from doubt either as to whether it would not go off, but he was burning with excitement; and soon he stood amongst the ruins of the hut where, by the light of a more cautious fire than the one he had kicked into flames the night before, Pat sat waiting for him.

"There," he cried, putting the gun into Pat's hands. "Now when are you going to do it?"

"To-morrow evening'll be my chance. He's going to dine up at the Castle to-morrow, and on his way home is when I'm to do it," replied Pat. "Then I'm to throw the gun down beside him and go straight away off again, and being his own gun there's no one will be suspected."

"Oh, no, Pat," he exclaimed, "I don't like that. Do it out in the field in the morning, and let him know what it's for. Couldn't you show me how to do it?"

"Whisht, sir; ye don't know anything about it," replied Pat, grasping the gun. "Leave it to me, and I'll settle it right enough."

"Yes, but, Pat, you mustn't do it that cowardly way," persisted Murtagh.

"Now, Mr. Murtagh, ye're talking foolish," said Pat. "Whatever way we do it, mustn't we do it sure an' certain? and if it's me's to do it, mustn't I do it my own way? What good would it do ye for the polis to take me? Leave it to me, and he'll know what it's for, sure enough. Ye don't want to be goin' back of your word, do ye?"

"No, indeed, I don't!" cried Murtagh, with vivid recollection of Winnie's grief and Theresa's stories.

"They said I'd never be able to do it right," pursued Pat; "but gettin' a gun was the only thing that bothered me; now my mother'll stop where she is and die in the old home; and it isn't only her—there's many'll say a prayer for ye for this evening's work, Mr. Murtagh. They say what he wants is to turn us all out and get foreigners in bit by bit. It's an Englishman he's put into Dolan's farm. But if we mayn't live at home in our own place, where is it we'll live at all? We're made no more account of than if we was rats and mice."

Then followed detail after detail that only served to inflame Murtagh's heated brain the more. Neither of them really knew anything of what he was talking about. They only heard that people had to pay more than they had ever paid before for their homes, and that in some cases they were turned out of them altogether. They did not hear that where rents had been raised it was in consequence of expensive and necessary improvements; where tenants had been turned out it was always for a solid reason. But the people did not like such ways, and Pat repeated to Murtagh the grumblings of the worst and most discontented among them.

So after a time Murtagh bade Pat good night and hurried homewards. In his present state of excitement he could not venture into the schoolroom, but sending Peggy in to say that he had gone to bed, he went straight to his own room.