CHAPTER XXVII.—(Continued.)

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XIX, Issue 12, 19 December 1890, Page 23

CHAPTER XXVll.—(Continued.)

" Mother, I suppose you know—for you know everything—that Maurice O'Connor ia in prison again 1" " Ay, an' I hope he'll remain there till he goes out ov id the one way," " You're very unkind, mother. He never did anything to you. He never harmed you or me." " Didn't he ? Didn't they all " •' Hush, mother. I wonder at you ! Listen to me, mother, 'an I'll tell you something you don't know. Maurice O'Connor is in prison on board a ship in the river, and there's one that you know'll break her heart if anything happens him " " Lady Helen," said the old woman, with a gleam of vindictiveness. " No, not her—Miss Carrie Mordaunt. Now, mother, you're nice enough at times, an' " " Carrie Mordaunt!" cried the little woman, not a little put about apparently bj this news. " That's just as bid. It's bad blood to bad blood joined. The black drop is in her veins, and the false one ia his." " Mother," said the weaver, angrily, " I can't understand this. Since I've came back I've never heard you say a good word ov anyone. You spake as if you hated the whole world and all that's in it. Why would you ? 'Ihe world is going veiy well wid you now." " Ay, now. But I don't forget when they set their dogs after me, an' hunted me, as if 1 wor a wolf, through the woods and marshes. They called me witrh, an' ud have burnt me at tne crossroads. Why ? Bekaise 1 tould 'em what I kuew, an' couldn't help telhn' if me life depended upon it, as it did, that their rebellion would end iv dean and disgrace to them. I knew it. How did I know it 1 I couldn't tell any ruore than I can tell why I kern into the world or am stayio 1 iv id, wny I live, or walk, or think. I said it, and knew id— not kuowirj' wby. Bui I saw straight, as I see you now, Roger Maguire and McMahon, an' the ould stock wan and all, hanging on the gallows iree, or dead on the battie-fijld, or flyin' for their lives out ov tbe land, not knowin' where to lay their heads. An' I saw Bthrange faces an' sthrange men comin' to live in their high towers an' to rule over their broad lands. All that I saw, an 1 more. Could I help tellin' it ? No ; I tould 'em au' I warned 'em. What was my thanks ? To be huuted for a witch; to be searched for wid bloodhounds high an' low, athrough forest an' swamp, tired, ragged, hungiy, and weary—with no kind word from anyone —up in a tree one day, in a cave another, every day, every hour makin' me a dozen years ouldher—for ay they caugbt me, its' in the blazen fire piled up at the crossroads my lust breach 'ud j>o out in screams !" Tbe old woman, out of breath from her hurried way of speaking, stopped. " I never heard this afore," said the weaver—" I never heard any of this afore. Y"U never tould me." " Because I couldn't abear to tell you. I kern to Dublin, skepin' all day and crouching along ibe hedges at night. That was the way 1 travelled. An' there wasn't a wink I slept but I could see afore my eyes the red fiie blazin'on ihe cross roads and a roasting form iv it — me ! and pcramee risin' to th^ heavens such as never cross roads heard afoie—mine! An 1 all bekaise I tould'em wh^it I knew an'what I saw. 1 didn t want the knowledge, ask for it, or seek for it ; but id kern as my lite kern, as my sight kern, an' I couldn't keep from telhn' j 'em. That was nny thanks. Ihey'ie in for id, now, an' " "They'll win, mother; they'll win. Don't tell me else," said Maaus, not a little thunderstruck at what he heard. •' I'heyM lose. Tuey'll die, all ov 'em, in the battle-field, on the gallows, or over the say—God knows how or where, if it makeß any matter," said she, firmly. " Well, mother, Godbpoke afore you 1" said her son, teprovingly, " but all that's far ahead. What I'd be glad ov now, it you'd tell me what to do about Maurice O'Connor. I always guessdd you knew things that other people didn't—an' dear knows," added he, wi h a sigh, " it's not a gift to be wished for, but if you can, mother, for tbe love of God tell me what i ought to do. Can you help me ?"

But the old woman, if she knew bow, did not answer ; but, apparently, full of her own wrongs, gathered up her bent form and hobbled in a wrathful manner out of the room.

" Arrah 1" muttered her sjn, shaking bis head dolefully, " it's hard to get the going way on tbe ould. The thrubbles have turned her head. What's to be done, now ? I must go down to the water aod Bt»e tbe ship. Who knows what plan might kum into my head. Maurice O'Connor I Mauiice O'Connor 1 'twor better for you you never kern. .An' faix 'twa9 trie bad night, I'm afearel, tor yju both that tl c thunder drove you in'o the pie9ence of Miss Mordauut."

With which reflection, be extinguished the candle, climbe 1 up the stairs, gained the btrcet, let dowu tne shutters again, padlocked them, and went his way.

Meantime, Carrie Mordaunt, her heart beating so violently in her breast that it sometimes produced an attack of suffocation and stopped her breathing, hurried homewards, her heavy woollen cloak effectually disguisiDg her and preventing recognition. Arrived there, she had time to change her dress and proceed towards the drawing-room ; but, coming near to the opened door, she heard voices inside, and a name— the name was that uppermost in her thoughts— falling on her ear, she paused to listen. " The question is this," said one, whose voice she knew to be that of Sir Richard Borlasp, one of the two lord's deputies then paramount in the government of Ireland—" la it not batter to hang him at once, and put, forth the necessary statement required in England ? There will then be no chance of contradiction."

"T differ in opinion, Sir Richard," said Sir Charles Coote. "I should extract the information from him on the rack. Torture is the thing needful. What say you, Raymond ?" ''I will not venture an opinion, or, if 1 did, it would be that he should be regularly tried for rebellion for having been found with arms in his hand?. It would be a warning to all others, and would save appearances. The rigid carrying out of the law would have a better effect in England than more summary and drastic measures. Irish lords would tee '

" Irish lords will see, by the heaven above me, that there is no mercy for those who fall into our hands 1 " interrupted Coote in a burst of passion. "If I had my will I should stretch them on the rack until their joints burst and their bones came asunder— or, if not, I should break their limbs with the headsman's hammer I" The listener Bhuddered as she heard these words. " Belter not say that elsewhere," said Borlase. " Much has been said already of expressions that dropped at the council table. Words are sometimes more dangerous than acts. Kill and lay waste, but always deplore outwardly the hard necessity that makes it imperative. That is the policy now-a-days— the wisest policy. It does not mean to spare "

*; Spare I " cried Coote. » Spare ! There shall not be a hound of Irish birth left in the land, nor Papist dog to pollute the soil— not one I ' " They are a prolific race, and grow again rapidly," said Borlase, smiling. "If you mow the beads off the shoulders of their lords and secure their broad esiates I fancy you will have done enough for tbe present. Extermination, if possible, were the wisest plan, but-is it possible ?" r

"Possible ?" iterated the ferocious Coote, " perfectly possible. I should, if I were allowed free will "

Tbe listener put her hands to her ears. A coarse and savage expression, indicative of how he would prevent further growth or existence of the Irish race, came on her hearing, and she turned aside in disgust acd fright. It was a statement long to be remembered in Irish history, and nothing more demoniacal, perhaps, ever passed from human lips. r

Came Mordaunt was inexpressibly shocked, and sought to close her ears to the expression, but the issues of the conversation were too tremendous for even maidenly modesty to bar the way to hearing it.

"Well, gentlemen, said her brother, " to what conclusion do you come ? Further discussion is waste of time, and there is much business to be done."

" I vote for the confession," said one who had not spoken yet ; " the rack will bring it fortb. It can be had before witnesses. With that, the king's power, if not his head, will surely fall." " I vote similarly," Baid Coote. "I do not forget that tbe scoundrel's hand placed this mark here," pointing to his forehead, which Btill bore the marks of the escaping piisoner's blow. " You are not forgiving enough— you will not adopt the Scriptural plan of dealing with an enemy," said Borlase, in ironical rebuke which set all a-laughing— " If thine enemy smite tbee on one cheek

" How do you propose it shall be done ? " asked the secretary of the council, who appeared to be noting down their resolutions. " Send a guard of soldiers to bring him hither, let him be heavily ironed, and placed in dungeons until to-morrow. To prevent traitorous hand from setting him free, as before, see that trusty soldiers are placed in the cell with him— they will keep him agreeable company " replied Sir hichard Borlase, with a cynical smile, which meant a great deal. "Who shall see that he is brought safely hither— you, Coote ?" " No, 1 have other work to perform. But it must be done by caTefnl band. There must be no mistake this time," said Coote. "He is of more importance to our purposes than a dozen other of their chiefs. 1 think you had better go, Raymond. You have met him before." " If you wish it," said the secretary with Borne reluctance. "Yes. You had better discharge the duty," said Borlase. "It is too important to be committed to other hands." " And prithee, Raymond, do not let the soldiers-they love a Papist rebel, you know— show him too many marks of affection on the way " said Borlase, gaily. '

"Nor let them press his march too fast with the points of their bayonets or the butt-ends of their muskets," added Coote signihcantly. B

It was but with indifferent humour that it struck the ears of the listening girl, as they concluded their discussion on the subiect and addressed themselves to other matters.

r The necessity of hearing what they said kept her strength up during the discussion ; but now that it was over and a reeult arrived at, Bhefelt her strength going and the sight leaving her eyes. To prevent herself falling she stretched out her hands against the wall, and bending her forehead to the cold stones sought to keep up the continuity of her thoughts.

Maurice O'Connor to be tortured ! — Maurice O'Connor to be put on the rack ! — these were the thoughts that kept running through her disordered brain. It seemed tor some brief period as if demon voices, around and beside her, were whispering these words into hor earr . But there were uo forme there, nor voices in her ears

— it was only the excitement of her thoughts burning these words in letters of fire into her brain. Maurice O'Connor to be tortured— at once she pictured the form stretched in agony on the rack, the tortured joints, the dew-drops of pain exuding from the forehead, the froth from the mouth, the eyes glassy and stony, the lips blue, the The picture set her braia, heart, and blood afire : called back all her strength and more ; called up indeed such strength of frame and force of will as had never moved her sleuder form before ; and almost unconscious of what she was doing, she sped across the hall, opened the door, closed it softly after her, and wholly inattentive to the surroundings, unconscious tha' house or street, or castle or battlement were around her, sentient only to the one loved figure, a prisoner ou ship-board, and the terrible fate that awaired him, flew through the streets, passed the armed guards at the gates, and was away through the bye-paths and lanes that existed where now Merrion square and that portion of the city extends, and thruogh the swampa that covered it. wholly unaware that her thin dress was insufficient against the cold air blowing over the swampy low reaches that formed the mouth of the river and, indeed, no*- caring. Only one thing was present to her mmd — the anchored ship ; only one form therein — her lover ; only one scene surrounded all — the torture room and its concomitant horrors.