He tossed and tumbled all night long, wakening Bobbo sometimes, and frightening him by the wild things he called out in his sleep, and next morning when he woke he was in such a state of nervous exaltation as made even Bobbo's companionship almost too painful to be borne. Only now did he fully realize that his share in this enterprise was done, and the greatness of the catastrophe he was helping to bring about seemed to begin to dawn upon him as the time for its fulfilment approached. His heart thumped against his side; his lips and hands were hot and dry. How was he to spend his day in the companionship of the others without betraying himself?

He knew that he could not keep away from them all day without causing remark and perhaps search; so he tried to force himself to feel calmer, and when the breakfast bell summoned him to the dining-room, he went in and took his usual seat at the table.

But so startling was his appearance that Nessa exclaimed anxiously, "Murtagh dear, you are ill!"

His uncle looked up, and was shocked, too, at the face that his eyes rested upon.

"Why, my boy," he said kindly, "what is the matter with you? Do you feel pain anywhere?"

"I am quite well, thank you," said Murtagh. His uncle continued to look anxiously at him. Nessa said no more, but put a cup of tea beside his plate, laying her hand for one instant on his head as she passed back to her own seat. Her touch thrilled through him in a way that was almost pain. He drank some of the tea, and then his heart began to beat less rapidly; so that when his uncle asked him if he had slept well, he was able to answer more naturally, "Yes, thank you."

"Awfully queerly!" said Bobbo; "you were shouting out all sorts of things all the time!"

His uncle made no remark, and breakfast proceeded in silence. But when it was over Mr. Blair called Nessa back and told her that she had better send for the doctor and let him see Murtagh.

"It can do no harm, at all events," he said, "and the child looks ill."

Breakfast had done Murtagh good, but he was in a state of feverish unrest.

Every distant banging of a door, every step in the passage, every sudden raising of voices, caused his heart almost to stand still with expectation, for in his excitement yesterday evening he had not quite clearly understood whether Pat did or did not intend to change the plan of action he had described. All he knew was that he had done his share, he had given the gun, and now at any moment Mr. Plunkett might be killed with it.

He did not shrink, but as the time approached his mind had become so filled with the horror of the deed that he felt not one grain of the exultation he had expected. There came once or twice underneath all a pricking doubt which for the moment turned his state of expectation into agony.

Could it be that he was all wrong? Yesterday evening Pat had crushed the dawning of this thought by the assertion that it was a doubt only worthy of a child, and by the tales of injustice with which he had so adroitly proceeded to fill Murtagh's mind. But it was impossible, quite, to shake off the conviction that it must be cowardly to shoot at a man in the dark when he suspects no danger.

Twice during the morning this conviction grew so strong as almost to make the whole truth flash upon Murtagh, but he rejected it. Pat's way of doing it might be cowardly, but the deed itself must be great.

The morning passed away; the terrible news that Murtagh was expecting did not come; and it was just luncheon time when Rosie, returning from a message to Nessa's room, remarked that Mr. Plunkett had been looking over papers in the study all day, and that some lunch had just gone up for him on Uncle Blair's tray. Then it had not happened yet, and it could not happen for some time to come. Murtagh scarcely knew if he were relieved to hear it, but the strain of momentary expectation was gone, and he began to feel tolerably sure now that Pat intended to keep to the plan he had described.

After a time, Murtagh, who had remained standing by the drawing-room window, heard through the open door the sound of Mr. Plunkett's voice and Mr. Blair's as they advanced towards the hall door. They were not thinking of him apparently, for they were talking of some business matter. Mr. Plunkett went out, and Mr. Blair called after him, "Seven o'clock dinner, remember, Plunkett."

As Murtagh stood watching Mr. Plunkett walk briskly away over the grass, all his horror of the way Pat had chosen for the execution of his plan came back upon him in full force. Surely, surely, it was treacherous to kill a man in the dark, when he was on the way home from your very own house. He stood immovable, his eyes fixed upon Mr. Plunkett, his head feeling as though it were really turning with conflicting thoughts. Then some words of his uncle's fell upon his ears. He was talking to Nessa in the hall.

"Yes, all things considered," he was saying, "it is strange, isn't it, little one, that that man should be risking his life every day for Murtagh's benefit?"

"How do you mean for Murtagh?" she asked.

"I thought I had told you how he constantly receives threatening letters in consequence of the improvements he is making in the estate. Many of these improvements will bear no fruit till long after my time, and now that poor little Frankie is gone, Murtagh is the person who will profit by them. I remarked that to Plunkett to-day, when he was talking to me about this ejectment business, and I asked him why he went on with it. He said, 'It is my duty, sir.'" Mr. Blair had spoken slowly, and he ended with a little sigh.

"But surely, Uncle Blair," asked Nessa, "they could never really shoot him?"

"I believe," replied Mr. Blair, "that if it were not well known that he always carries a loaded pistol, he would be shot at to-morrow. Now the risk is too great, for they know that if they miss him he is not likely to miss them. His perfect fearlessness is greatly in his favor."

"O dear, what a terrible, dreadful, place!" sighed Nessa.

On his side of the drawing-room door, Murtagh stood horror-stricken at the revelation that Mr. Plunkett was deliberately risking his life for his benefit at the time that he was consenting to a plot to kill Mr. Plunkett. He understood only in the vaguest manner how it came about that it was for his benefit; still the mere fact that Mr. Plunkett knew the danger and braved it deliberately, was in itself enough to arouse in that impulsive little heart something akin to sympathy. Every generous feeling in him was set at war with what Pat was going to do, but still he felt with an acuteness of suffering beyond his years that the cause of the people was just the same. If it had been right before that Mr. Plunkett should die, it was right now. It had become odious in him to have helped Pat, but Pat was just as right as ever, and in passionate defense of him he entered the hall, exclaiming:

"Nessa, you and Uncle Blair don't know how he does things. You don't know how he turns the people out of their houses, and sends them to prison for nothing, and sees them starving in the winter-time and doesn't care. No wonder they hate him. No wonder they want to kill him! Every one says if Uncle Blair would go about himself, things would be very different. He may make money, but oh! I wish it could never be for me. I would rather starve than have that money that's robbed from them."

"He is not robbing them!" exclaimed Nessa, opening her great gray eyes indignantly; "and even if he were, it's too dreadful hating like that and watching to kill people. I'd rather be oppressed all my life than be guilty of a cowardly murder."

"It's only what the Sicilians did," answered Murtagh. "It's not right that a tyrant should go on doing what he pleases."

"It's not what the Sicilians did," returned Nessa; "they fought a brave hand-to-hand struggle; they did not secretly murder a man who was going fearlessly about amongst them; and what they did do they did only after having tried every other means in their power. Besides, they fought against real tyranny, and Mr. Plunkett is not tyrannizing over these people; I know he is not, Murtagh. Uncle Blair has told me about it lots of times. He's trying all he can to make things better for the people, only they are so unreasonable; they expect to have everything done for them, and they don't want to give anything in exchange. It is quite fair when a lot of expensive improvements have been made that the rent should be raised; and then when people are drunken and worthless and won't take care of their land, of course they have to be turned out. Mr. Plunkett may be disagreeable," she added, "but I don't see why they need hate him for that. We hate people, I suppose, when they are wicked; but he isn't wicked; they are wicked when they can think for one minute of such mean, cowardly revenge."

"You don't know, Nessa. He is wicked. He must be wicked. You'll drive me perfectly mad if you talk like that. I believe everything's all wrong together and nothing ever can be right."

And with this confused utterance of the despair that was fast possessing him Murtagh would have rushed away out of doors, but Nessa caught him in her arms, and thinking that her indignation had hurt him, exclaimed penitently:

"Murtagh dear, I didn't mean you. Of course I never meant that for one minute. I know very well that whatever else you are, you could never be cruel and cowardly."

He did not speak; he had no right to her faith, no right to her love. He disengaged himself as quickly as he could and rushed away, he didn't care where—anywhere, anywhere to escape from the thoughts that came hurrying upon him now.

If only he had had the slightest idea where Pat was to be found he would have gone to him, and insisted that it should be done openly. But he had not. He only knew that he was not to be on the island.

Scarcely knowing where he went, Murtagh nevertheless kept near the Red House, declaring to himself that things must now take their course, but at the same time feeling as though he in some measure protected Mr. Plunkett by keeping close to him.

At last he threw himself upon the ground under a hedge, and he had not been there many minutes when steps and voices on the other side roused him from his miserable struggle.

He sat up, discovered that he was sitting under the hedge of Mr. Plunkett's back garden, and as he began to take note of external things, he became aware that Mr. Plunkett was walking along the path on the other side of the hedge, carrying his little daughter in his arms. There were gaps in the thickness of the hedge, and Murtagh could see the pair quite distinctly. The child's head rested lovingly upon her father's shoulder, the golden hair scattered a little over his sleeve. One arm was round his neck, and the delicate little face was illumined by that look of perfect contentment which is almost more beautiful than a smile.

"How nice it is that you are so strong, Fardie," she said caressingly, as they passed close by Murtagh.

"Are you comfortable, dear?" asked Mr. Plunkett.

"Yes, very," she replied, with a little sigh of pleasure.

They took one turn in silence down the path and back again. Then little Marion spoke again, but this time there was a troubled sound in her voice.

"Don't be late to-night, father, will you?"

"Not very, my pet," replied Mr. Plunkett; "but you must be sound asleep long before I come."

"I'll shut up my eyes and try, Fardie, but I can't go to sleep when you're out because—" And here the little voice trembled and stopped short.

"Because what, dear?" said Mr. Plunkett, bending his head a little so that his cheek touched her forehead.

"Because I think such dreadful things when I'm in the dark, and I get so dreadfully, dreadfully frightened, Fardie, lest those wicked men might kill you!"

The last words came out in a low tone, as though she feared that uttering them might make what she dreaded more probable, and putting her other arm up round her father's neck she clung to him tightly.

"Who let you hear of such things?" exclaimed Mr. Plunkett, in the stern voice that Murtagh knew well.

"Mother often cries when you're out," said Marion; "and she says perhaps you'll be brought in dead! But, Fardie, you mustn't, because I couldn't bear it!"

Mr. Plunkett did not speak immediately; then he said:

"My little daughter, you mustn't mind everything you hear people say, but if such a thing ever did happen, you will be my own brave child, won't you?—and you will like to think afterwards that your father died at his work!"

"No, no, Fardie, I couldn't be brave then!" cried Marion. "I couldn't stay alive with only mother! You won't let them do it? Promise, father!"

At that moment "mother's" voice made itself heard, calling: "Marion, Marion, come in! How could you keep her out so late, James?"

"No, no, my pet; they shan't do it if I can help it!" replied Mr. Plunkett, kissing her and hastily setting her down. "Now put all such ideas out of your head, and run in to your mother; she's calling you."

The child went slowly away and Mr. Plunkett looking after her said sadly:

"My poor little one, I suppose it will come upon you some day soon; and yet, God knows, I am doing the best I can for them!"

He spoke to himself, but the words were loud enough to reach Murtagh's ears, and they told him more than years of explanations could have done.

For the moment he felt as if he could almost have loved Mr. Plunkett. He dashed out of the ditch and away across the park. Find Pat he must and would. He saw it all in its true light now! How could he have helped in such a fiendish plan?

It was easier to determine to find Pat than to find him. In the woods by the island, on every island in their part of the river, in the shrubberies, in every clump of trees that dotted the park, he searched but searched in vain; and while he looked it grew dark.

But though he hurried from place to place he was comparatively calm now. He had quite made up his mind what to do, and his energy was the energy of resolution. He was not going to betray Pat by warning Mr. Plunkett if he could help it, and having thoroughly searched the park, he watched Mr. Plunkett without any fear as he crossed it on his way to dinner.

Then he entered the house, and fetching himself a cup of milk and some bread from the servants' hall he sat quietly enough upon the door-step while he ate it. Mr. Plunkett would not return home till ten o'clock, so there was a long anxious time to wait before Pat was likely to be found, and as Murtagh sat upon the step he planned with an almost curious calmness all that must come after.

Pat must be helped somehow. The only way would be, Murtagh thought, to tell his uncle all. Then he hoped things would be put properly right for Pat, and it was with a lighter heart than he had had for a long time that he got up to continue his search.

But the night was pitch dark, and towards half-past nine he was still unsuccessful. He was keeping careful watch upon the time, and the suspense now grew painfully intense, for he knew that if he had not discovered Pat when the stable clock rung out a quarter to ten, there would be nothing for it but to warn Mr. Plunkett. Was Pat not coming at all? and if not, where and how should he ever find him?

At last he began to call gently, "Pat, Pat!" and after a minute a cautious, "Whisht, sir!" from some bushes on his right told him that Pat was there.

He bounded forward. "I began to think that I should never find you!" he exclaimed. "Here, give me the gun! Oh, Pat, to think how awfully near we were doing it!"

But Pat started back, holding the gun tightly, and asked in a tone different from any he had ever used to Murtagh before, "What is it you're meaning?"

"We were dreadfully wicked, really; he's not half so bad as we thought, and it would have been just a cowardly murder," said Murtagh, his voice conveying the horror that he felt.

"I don't care what it is," said Pat. "I'm going to do it this night."

"You shan't touch him," replied Murtagh. "You don't understand. He isn't half so bad as we thought. This isn't the way; give me the gun."

"Look here, Mr. Murtagh, I don't want to hurt ye," replied Pat, in a fierce whisper, "but if ye offer to touch that gun, I'll have to give ye a knock that'll keep you quiet till it's all over."

"Are you mad, Pat? I tell you we were all wrong." And Murtagh stretched out his hand for the gun.

"Right or wrong, it's all one to me. I won't stir out o' this till he's as dead as a door-nail."

"You shan't touch him with that gun; I got it, and I'll have it back," replied Murtagh. As he spoke he seized the gun, and half succeeded in wrenching it from Pat's grasp. Pat struck out at him a blow that made him reel back and loose his hold for a moment, but he sprang forward and seized the gun again. Pat tried to wrench it from him. Murtagh hung on with all his strength; the gun went off in the struggle. Almost instantaneously there was a second report. Something whizzed through the bushes, and before Murtagh had time to realize what had happened Pat had fled and he was standing alone with the gun in his hands, a curious stiff sensation numbing his left arm. He stood there for a few seconds; then he sprang out of the bushes and hurried towards the house.

The hall was full of light and commotion. The children were out upon the steps, the servants had come from the kitchen, Nessa and Mr. Blair stood by Mr. Plunkett, who in a perfectly calm voice was desiring Brown to bring him a lantern.

"I heard no sound after I fired," he added, turning to Mr. Blair, "but if any one is wounded, we must get a doctor for him, and if—if it should be worse—"

"I trust it is not, I trust it is not," interrupted Mr. Blair; "but if it should be so, Plunkett, remember we were fully agreed beforehand that what you have done was the right thing to do."

"It is all right," cried Murtagh; "you haven't hurt him, and here's your gun; you're quite safe now."

His arm was hurting, and his head swam, so that he staggered and almost fell as he held out the gun to Mr. Plunkett.

"And he never fired at you at all; it was when I was trying to get the gun from him that it went off. But oh, do be kinder to the people. They don't know anything about just; and he doesn't understand now; they can't understand."

And the tension of that awful day over at last, the excitement died suddenly out of Murtagh's face, and Mr. Plunkett had just time to catch him in his arms as he fell fainting to the floor.