Breakfast in the proctor's, on the morning of Christmas Eve, was eaten as if it had been a funeral meal. The proctor himself could not raise his spirits, which were generally high and cheerful. John and Alick were much more serious than usual; and were it not for the presence of M'Carthy, the meal in question would have been a very gloomy one indeed.

Even M'Carthy himself felt the influence of the spirit that prevailed, and found that all his attempts to produce cheerfulness or mirth among them were by no means successful. The two sons, as if acting under the influence of some unaccountable presentiment, engaged themselves in casting bullets for the fire-arms with which the house was furnished, whilst M'Carthy spent his time with the ladies, and endeavored to amuse them as well as ha could. About twelve o'clock John rode into the town of Lisnagola to bring home a blunderbuss which he had sent the day before, by Mogue Moylan, for the purpose of having it furnished with a new ramrod. Mogue being engaged in some matters of a pressing nature, John determined to go for it himself, especially as he wanted to lay in a better supply of powder. Of this Mogue knew nothing.

Mr. Temple soon made his appearance, but, as the pedlar feared, the object of his visit was not attended with success. He urged all the arguments in his power upon the proctor and his son Alick, to remove instantly, and at once, to Lisnagola, or some other neighboring town, where, for the present, they might be safe. Instead of listening to the argument of instant removal, they laughed it to scorn. In the course of the following week, they said, it was their intention to remove; but to think of breaking up their family on a Christmas Eve, with a guest in their house too!--the thing was out of the question. A few days made no great difference; and their mind was fixed not to disturb their family or their guest, then.

Soon after Mr. Temple had gone, Julia Purcel met M'Carthy in the hall, and asked him for a moment to the dining-room, in a voice which was tremulous with agitation.

"Alas! Frank," she exclaimed, whilst the tears streamed from her eyes, "I feel a weight like that of death upon my heart. I fear there is some dreadful calamity hanging over this family."

"Why, my dear Julia," he replied, wiping the tears from her eyes, "will you suffer yourself to be overcome by a weakness of mind so unworthy of you? The morning is dark and gloomy, and calculated, apart from such silly antic.i.p.ations--pardon me, Julia--to fill the mind with low spirits. Cheer up, my dear girl; is not this season, in a peculiar manner, set apart for cheerfulness and enjoyment? Why, then, will you indulge in this weak and foolish melancholy?"

"I would not feel as I do," she replied, "but the truth is--now do not scold me, Frank--in fact I had an omen of calamity last night!"

"An omen! how is that?" he asked. "On bidding my papa and John goodnight, as I was going to bed, about eleven o'clock, I saw them both standing below me at the foot of the stairs, in the hall. I started, and turning again into the drawing-room, where I had just left them, saw that there they certainly stood, without scarcely having had time to change their position."

"A mere physical illusion, my dear Julia; nothing else."

"But is it not said," she added, "that to see the likeness of an individual late at night is an omen of almost immediate death?"

"It has been said so, I admit, my dear Julia, as have fifty thousand follies equally nonsensical. But to hear you, Julia, talk in this manner! upon my word, I'm surprised at it."

"You will not think of leaving us, dear Frank, until we get to a place of safety?"

"Unquestionably not; but you are alarming yourself unnecessarily."

"Well, perhaps I am," she said, gaining confidence from his firmness of manner; "but I a.s.sure you, Frank, I am not timid, nor a coward. I can load a gun, pistol, or blunderbuss, and what is better still, can discharge them without shrinking; so can my sister; but with respect to anything of a supernatural character--"

"You are a great coward. I perceive that; but, my dear Julia, to pa.s.s to a subject of the deepest interest to my happiness:--why is it that there has been an appearance of gloom and distrust about you for such a length of time? I think there should be nothing but the most unbounded confidence between us."

"Have you been perfectly candid with me, Frank?"

"If you remember, dear Julia, you did not afford me an opportunity.

You looked as if you felt offended, and I could perceive that you had withdrawn your confidence."

"My mind is too much distracted now," she replied, "to speak on this subject; but, if you wish it, I shall tell you, on Monday next, why I have appeared so."

"Wish it! alas! my dear Julia, I can only say that my affection for you knows no bounds. Julia, you know I have loved you; and, happen what may, I shall carry that affection for you to my grave. Only say that the affection which you have already confessed for me is not cooled or diminished; only say it, dearest life, and you will relieve my heart of a heavy load."

She fixed her beautiful dark eyes upon him, as if she were in the act of scrutinizing his very spirit; at length, she seemed to have arrived at a fixed conclusion; two or three tears slowly followed each other down her cheeks, and she replied, "I fear, Frank, I have been led to do you injustice; that is, to doubt your truth or your honor; yes," she added, in a low confiding voice, "I feel that I love you as I ever did. But I am depressed, and my heart is full of an unaccountable sorrow."

"My ever--ever dear--dearest Julia!" he exclaimed, as he pressed her to his heart; where she sobbed, and tenderly reacknowledged her love. "On Monday, however," she observed, after having somewhat composed herself, "I shall tell you, at full length, the circ.u.mstances that have disturbed me with respect to you." Another kiss as they separated, and so it was arranged between them.

When Mogue Moylan heard that John purcel had gone to the gunsmith's for the blunderbluss, he stealthily sought the barn where he slept, and, putting on a great frieze coat, he went to the haggard; approached the stack, and thrusting his hand up the thatch, secured a case of pistols that had been left with him and Jerry Joyce for their defence, and fixing them under his coat, deliberately took his departure.

"I'll have betther luck," he said to himself, "to join the boys, and as I have my own party among them that'll stand to me, we'll have the best chance. I'm to take charge o' the girls for him, after the men's shot; an' it'll go hard if I don't do him out o' the one he's set upon. If I sted in the house, as I intended at first, maybe it's a bullet from the boys I'd get into me. No--no--every way--think of it as I will, it's my wisest plan to cut; an' at any rate, he'd find me out now about the blunderbuss. Have her, however, I will, or lose a fall for it."

This was Mogue's last appearance but one about the proctor's establishment.

John Purcel, on inquiring for the blunderbuss at the gunmaker's heard that Mogue had waited until the ramrod was put in, after which the man said he brought it home; a fact which Purcel never doubted. On the contrary, he felt annoyed at his own stupidity for not having asked Mogue the question before he went; and he consequently blamed himself more than he did Mogue. On his way home, however, he met Mogue; and it is necessary to state that none of the Purcel family returned to their house, for a considerable time past, by the same way, unless indeed very rarely. Mogue had come out upon the road, which he was crossing just as John turned a corner, and came plump upon him.

"What is the reason, Mogue," he asked, "That you didn't let me know you had brought home the blunderbuss?"

"That I may be happy, Mr. John, but it was bekaise you didn't ax me; an'

a beautiful new ramrod it has now, at any rate."

"Where are you bound for, Mogue?"

"Why, up to Harry Sproule's for paper and writin' things for the ladies.

Any news in Lisnagola, Mr. John?"

"Nothing that's good, at any rate," replied the other; "except that the country, Mogue, must be put under martial law."

He set spurs to his horse on uttering these words, and immediately rode on.

"Ay," said Mogue, as he looked bitterly after him, "there you go, you blasted tyrant!

"Martial law! Ah, if I had her from among you, I didn't care the divil's blazes had you all, as they will soon; an' that may be, I pray Jasus this day! Martial law! ah, bad luck to you!"

On reaching home, John Purcel made no immediately inquiry about the blunderbuss, having taken it for granted that all was right, nor was Mogue's disappearance or treachery at all suspected, until late in 'the course of the night.

Twilight was now setting in, when a strange man called at the proctor's and said he wished to speak with Mr. M'Carthy. M'Carthy came to the hall-door, and looking at him keenly inquired his business.

"I don't know," said the man; "I can only tell you what I was desired to say to you."

"Well, let us hear even that," said the other.

"I was bid to ax you, if you wish to sarve this family."

"I do, most certainly."

"In that case, then, you're to follow me," said the man.

"I have no such intention, I a.s.sure you, my good fellow," replied the other.

"Very well, then, I have done my duty," said the man, turning to depart.

"But," said our friend, "will you not let me know who it was that sent you."

"I tell you," replied the stranger, "that I don't know. I was bid to say to you that the hour is come, and the man, and that's all I know; barrin' that as I said you wor bid to come wid me, if you wish to sarve thia family. Now I must go."

"Stop a moment," said M'Carthy, "till I return into the house, and let them know I'm going out."

"No," replied the other; "if you do, you won't find me here when you come back. This instant, or never."

"To serve this family, you say?"

"To sarve this family, I was bid to say. I know nothing, an' can say nothing about it myself."

"Come, then," said M'Carthy, resolutely, and thinking of the note he had received in college, "I trust you, or rather I will trust the man that sent you;" and having uttered these words, he departed with the stranger. The scene now changes to a hill, three or four miles distant from the proctor's house, called Crockaniska, at the foot of which was a small but beautiful lake or tarn, from which a graceful little stream fell down into a green and picturesque valley, that lay to the south below it. The shades of evening were beginning to deepen, but for a considerable time before, the road that went past it was observed to be more than usually-thronged with men, some on foot and others on horseback; all presenting a solemn and determined aspect, as if bent upon some dangerous enterprise that must be accomplished, and all apparently strangers to the inhabitants of the place, and to each other.

On the brow of the hill stood a picturesque ruin, and the hill itself was literally covered with men and horses; for it was evident, by the fatigued and travel-stained appearance of both, that they had come from a far distance. After dusk had set in, the crowd a.s.sumed an appearance of stern repose, but at the same time, and somewhat contrasting with this dreadful stillness, pale lights might be seen flitting from time to time through the ragged apertures, and vacant windows of the ruin.