Kilgorman

"No; she has gone on a visit to friends," replied his honour, who evidently enjoyed my disappointment.

"She expected to be at home when I saw her yesterday."

"And what of that? Pray, what matters it to you?"

"Only this," said I, warming up, "that I would lay down my life any day for Miss Kit; and it is for her sake, and for her alone, that I would be sorry to see harm come to a man to whom I owe nothing but harshness and injury."

I repented as soon as I had said the words, but he gave me no chance of drawing back. He laughed dryly.

"So that's at the bottom of it? The son of a boatman and smuggler aspires to be son-in-law to the owner of Knockowen and Kilgorman--a pretty honour indeed!"

Here I flung all prudence to the winds, and glared in his face as I said,--

"Suppose, instead of the son of a boatman and smuggler, the man who loved your daughter were the son of him whose estates and fortune you have stolen, what then, Mr Gorman?"

He looked at me attentively for a moment, and his face turned so white that I thought him about to swoon. It was a moment or two before he could master his tongue, and meanwhile he kept his eyes on me like a man fascinated.

"Fool!" he gasped at last. "You don't know what you are talking about."

Then with a sudden recovery of composure, and in a voice almost conciliatory, he added, "Miss Kit is about to visit her friends in Dublin, and will not be back here for weeks. Take the advice of a friend, Gallagher, and get away from these parts. To give you the chance, you may, if you wish to serve me, ride to Malin instead of Martin, and escort my daughter as far as Derry."

"Miss Kit might prefer some other escort," said I.

"She might. You are not bound to wait upon her. But I can give you a pa.s.s if you do."

"When does she leave Malin?"

"To-morrow forenoon."

"And what of Tim if he is caught?" said I.

"Warn him to keep on Fanad. He will be safe there."

"Let the horse and the pa.s.sport be ready as soon as it is dark to- night," said I. "I will be here."

"Very good. And see here, Gallagher," said he, "what did you mean when you said just now that I had stolen any one's land and fortune?"

"What should I mean?" said I. "It's an old story you've got hold of,"

said he, "that was disposed of twenty years ago by the clearest proofs.

Do you suppose, if you had been what you are foolish enough to imagine, I would have brought you up in my own house, eh? Wouldn't it have been simpler to drop you in the lough? It was only my esteem for your poor mother, Mary Gallagher, that prevented my letting all the world know what you may as well know now, that Mike Gallagher, your father, was the murderer of my

"That is a lie," said I, "and some day I'll prove it."

"Ay, do," said he with a laugh. "It will take a good deal of proof."

"Not more than Biddy McQuilkin can give," said I.

He staggered at this like a man shot.

"Biddy is dead long ago," he exclaimed.

"Are you so sure of that?" said I. "Any way, I'll be here for the horse and the pa.s.s at dark. And take my advice, Maurice Gorman, and see that not a hair of Tim's head is hurt. You are safe as long as he is, and no longer."

And not waiting to take food or encounter the other officials, I went down to my boat and cast myself adrift on the dark waters of the Sw.i.l.l.y.

My most urgent business was to find or communicate with Tim, and for that purpose I set sail once more for the headlands of Fanad.

As to his honour's curious behaviour, I knew him and distrusted him enough not to think much of it. He was a coward, cursed with a guilty conscience, and would fain have pa.s.sed himself off as a righteous judge and powerful patron. He was anxious to conciliate me, not so much, I thought, because of my hint about the property, which he was satisfied was incapable of proof, as from a fear I might compromise him with the authorities about his past dealings with the rebels. He was nervously anxious to get me out of the country, and was willing to promise anything, even Tim's safety and Miss Kit's society, to get rid of me.

But it would go hard with Tim if he had no security better than his honour's word; and my dear little mistress, if she was to be won at all, was not to be won as the price of a political bargain.

All the morning and afternoon I searched up and down in vain, meeting not a soul nor any sign of my brother. With heavy misgivings I returned to my boat, and set sail once more towards Knockowen. Half-way down the lough it occurred to me that I would do better to pay a visit first of all to Kilgorman. After the scare of this morning's business the rebels would hardly have the hardihood to meet there to-night; and although there was little chance of finding Tim there, the place contained a spot known to both of us, in which a message could be safely deposited.

So I tacked about, and soon found myself once more in the deep cave.

The place was empty and silent, and as I crept along the rocky pa.s.sage nothing but the echoes of my own feet and of the dull waves without disturbed the gloomy stillness of the place.

The big kitchen, already darkening, was deserted. Everything was as I had left it two nights ago.

I lost no time in lifting the board and depositing in the recess below the hearth my brief message for Tim:--

"Beware, Tim! You are marked down, and there's martial law after you.

Informers are at work, and the names are all known. Keep on Fanad. I serve on H.M.S. _Diana_.--Barry."

This done, and the board replaced, I was about to retire so as to be in time at Knockowen, when, taking a last glance round the gaunt room, my eye was attracted by the flutter of a paper pinned to the woodwork of one of the windows.

It contained a few words roughly scrawled with the end of a charred stick. This is what it said, and as I read my heart gave a great bound within me:--

"She's safe at Malin. The Duchman sails on the flud to-night.--Finn."

This, if it meant anything, meant foul play, and crus.h.i.+ng the paper into my pocket, I lost not a moment in regaining my boat and making all sail for Knockowen.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

WHAT I FOUND AT MALIN.

It was nine o'clock when I came alongside his honour's jetty, and once more demanded entrance of the sentry. This time I was received even more suspiciously than in the morning, and was allowed to wait for nearly half-an-hour before it was decided that I might safely be admitted into the premises. For this irritating delay I had probably to thank the impatience with which I met the sentinel's questions; for when at last I found myself at the house, his honour met me with an inquiry why I had delayed my coming to so late an hour.

"It is four long leagues to Malin," said he, "and on such a road you are not likely to be there before midnight, when the inn will be closed.

However, get Martin to saddle Tara for you. I wish Miss Kit and her maid to start for Derry at daybreak."

"Where is she now?" I asked.

"At the house of Mr Shannon, the magistrate who is with me here."

"And where is she to be taken in Derry?"

"To the Foyle Inn, where she will find instructions from me as to her journey to Dublin."