"Well, well, you're a good lad at heart," says Scully, glad perhaps in his inmost soul, as his countrymen always are and will be when a compatriot cheats the law and escapes a just judgment. "Mona, look after him for awhile, until I go an' see that lazy spalpeen of mine an' get him to put a good bed undher Mr. Rodney's horse."

When the old man has gone, Mona goes quietly up to her lover, and, laying her hand upon his arm,--a hand that seems by some miraculous means to have grown whiter of late,--says, gratefully,--

"I know why you said that about Ryan, and I thank you for it. I should not like to think it was your word had transported him."

"Yet, I am letting him go free that he may be the perpetrator of even greater crimes."

"You err, nevertheless, on the side of mercy, if you err at all; and--perhaps there may be no other crimes. He may have had his lesson this evening,--a lasting one. To-morrow I shall go to his cabin, and----"

"Now, once for all, Mona," interrupts he, with determination, "I strictly forbid you ever to go to Ryan's cottage again."

It is the first time he has ever used the tone of authority towards her, and involuntarily she shrinks from him, and glances up at him from under her long lashes in a half frightened, half-reproachful fashion, as might an offended child.

Following her, he takes both her hands, and, holding them closely, draws her back to her former position beside him.

"Forgive me: it was an ugly word," he says, "I take it back. I shall never forbid you to do anything, Mona, if my doing so must bring that look into your eyes. Yet surely there are moments in every woman's life when the man who loves her, and whom she loves, may claim from her obedience, when it is for her own good. However, let that pa.s.s. I now entreat you not to go again to Ryan's cabin."

Releasing her hands from his firm grasp, the girl lays them lightly crossed upon his breast, and looks up at him with perfect trust,--

"Nay," she says, very sweetly and gravely, "you mistake me. I am glad to obey you. I shall not go to Ryan's house again."

There is both dignity and tenderness in her tone. She gazes at him earnestly for a moment, and then suddenly slips one arm round his neck.

"Geoffrey," she says with a visible effort.

"Yes, darling."

"I want you to do something for my sake."

"I will do anything, my own."

"It is for my sake; but it will break my heart."

"Mona! what are you going to say to me?"

"I want you to leave Ireland--not next month, or next week, but at once.

To-morrow, if possible."

"My darling, why?"

"Because you are not safe here: your life is in danger. Once Ryan is recovered, he will not be content to see you living, knowing his life is in your hands; every hour you will be in danger. Whatever it may cost me, you must go."

"That's awful nonsense, you know," says Rodney, lightly. "When he sees I haven't taken any steps about arresting him, he will forget all about it, and bear no further ill will."

"You don't understand this people as I do. I tell you he will never forgive his downfall the other night, or the thought that he is in your power."

"Well, at all events I shan't go one moment before I said I should,"

says Rodney.

"It is now my turn to demand obedience," says Mona, with a little wan attempt at a smile. "Will you make every hour of my life unhappy? Can I live in the thought that each minute may bring me evil news of you,--may bring me tidings of your death?" Here she gives way to a pa.s.sionate burst of grief, and clings closer to him, as though with her soft arms to shield him from all danger. Her tears touch him.

"Well, I will go," he says, "on one condition,--that you come with me."

"Impossible!" drawing back from him. "How could I be ready? and, besides, I have said I will not marry you until a year goes by. How can I break my word?"

"That word should never have been said. It is better broken."

"Oh, no."

"Very well. I shall not ask you to break it. But I shall stay on here.

And if," says this artful young man, in a purposely doleful tone, "anything _should_ happen, it will----"

"Don't say it! don't!" cries Mona, in an agony, stopping his mouth with her hand. "Do not! Yes, I give in. I will go with you. I will marry you any time you like, the sooner the better,"--feverishly; "anything to save your life!"

This is hardly complimentary, but Geoffrey pa.s.ses it over.

"This day week, then," he says, having heard, and taken to heart the wisdom of, the old maxim about striking while the iron is hot.

"Very well," says Mona, who is pale and thoughtful.

And then old Brian comes in, and Geoffrey opens out to him this newly-devized plan; and after a while the old farmer, with tears in his eyes, and a strange quiver in his voice that cuts through Mona's heart, gives his consent to it, and murmurs a blessing on this hasty marriage that is to deprive him of all he best loves on earth.

And so they are married, and last words are spoken, and adieux said, and sad tears fall, and for many days her own land knows Mona no more.

And that night, when she is indeed gone, a storm comes up from the sea, and dashes the great waves inward upon the rocky coast. And triumphantly upon their white bosoms the sea-mews ride, screaming loudly their wild sweet song that mingles harmoniously with the weird music of the winds and waves.

And all the land is rich with angry beauty beneath the rays of the cold moon, that

"O'er the dark her silver mantle throws;"

and the sobbing waves break themselves with impotent fury upon the giant walls of granite that line the coast, and the clouds descend upon the hills, and the sea-birds shriek aloud, and all nature seems to cry for Mona.

But to the hill of Carrickdhuve, to sit alone and gaze in loving silence on the heaven-born grandeur of earth and sky and sea, comes Mona Scully no more forever.

CHAPTER XIV.

HOW GEOFFREY WRITES A LETTER THAT POSSESSES ALL THE PROPERTIES OF DYNAMITE--AND HOW CONFUSION REIGNS AT THE TOWERS.

In the house of Rodney there is mourning and woe. Horror has fallen upon it, and something that touches on disgrace. Lady Rodney, leaning back in her chair with her scented handkerchief pressed close to her eyes, sobs aloud and refuses to be comforted.

The urn is hissing angrily, and breathing forth defiance with all his might. It is evidently possessed with the belief that the teapot has done it some mortal injury, and is waging on it war to the knife.

The teapot, meanwhile, is calmly ignoring its rage, and is positively turning up its nose at it. It is a very proud old teapot, and is looking straight before it, in a very dignified fashion, at a martial row of cups and saucers that are drawn up in battle-array and are only waiting for the word of command to march upon the enemy.

But this word comes not. In vain does the angry urn hiss. The teapot holds aloft its haughty nose for naught. The cups and saucers range themselves in military order all for nothing. Lady Rodney is dissolved in tears.