Part 20 (1/2)

”There's one, and that's the young lady's brother,” Bale answered darkly, ”would not pull us out by the feet! I'll swear to that. Your honour's too much in his way, if what they say in the house is true.”

”Pooh!” the Colonel answered again. ”We're of one blood.”

”Cain and Abel,” Bale said. ”There's example for it.” And he chuckled.

The Colonel scolded him anew. But having done so he could not shake off the impression which the man's words had made on him. While he lived he was a constant and an irritating check upon James McMurrough. If the young man saw a chance of getting rid of that check, was he one to put it from him? Colonel John's face grew long as he pondered the question; he had seen enough of James to feel considerable doubt about the answer. The fire on the height above the lake had died down, the one on the strand was a bed of red ashes. The lake lay buried in darkness, from which at intervals the cry of an owl as it moused along the sh.o.r.e rose mournfully.

But Colonel John was not one to give way to fears that might be baseless. ”Let us sleep,” he said, shrugging his shoulders. And he lay down where he was, pillowing his head on a fis.h.i.+ng-net. Bale said nothing, but examined the door before he stretched himself across the threshold.

Half an hour after dawn they were roused. It was a heavy trampling on the stairs that awakened them. The door was quickly unlocked, it was thrown open, and the hairy face of O'Sullivan Og, who held it wide, looked in. Behind him were two of the boys with pikes--frowsy, savage, repellent figures, with drugget coats tied by the sleeves about their necks.

”You'll be coming with us, Colonel, no less,” Og said.

Colonel John looked at him. ”Whither, my man?” he asked coolly. He and Bale had got to their feet at the first alarm.

”Och, sure, where it will be best for you,” Og replied, with a leer.

”Both of us?” the Colonel asked, in the same hard tone.

”Faith, and why'd we be separating you, I'd be asking.”

Colonel John liked neither the man's tone nor his looks. But he was far above starting at shadows, and he guessed that resistance would be useless. ”Very good,” he said. ”Lead on.”

”Bedad, and if you'll be doing that same, we will,” O'Sullivan Og answered with a grin.

The Colonel and Bale found their hats--they'd been allowed to bring nothing else with them--and they went down the stairs. In the gloom before the door of the tower waited two st.u.r.dy fellows, barefoot and shock-headed, with musquetoons on their shoulders, who seemed to be expecting them. Round the smouldering embers of the fire a score of figures lay sleeping in the open, wrapped in their frieze coats. As many others sat with their backs against the wall, and their chins sunk on their b.r.e.a.s.t.s. The sun was not yet up, and all things were wrapt in a mist that chilled to the bone. Even within the narrow bounds of the forecourt, objects at a distance put on queer shapes and showed new faces. Nothing in all that was visible took from the ominous aspect of the two men with the firearms. One for each, Bale thought. And his face, always pallid, showed livid in the morning light.

Without a word the four men formed up round their prisoners, and at once O'Sullivan Og led the way at a brisk pace towards the gate.

Colonel John was following, but he had not taken three steps before a thought struck him, and he halted. ”Are we leaving the house at once?”

he asked.

”We are. And why not, I'm asking.”

”Only that I've a message for the McMurrough it will be well for him to have.”

”Sure,” O'Sullivan Og answered, his manner half wheedling, half truculent, ”'tis no time for messages and trifles and the like now, Colonel. No time at all, I tell you. Ye can see that for yourself, I'm thinking, such a morning as this.”

”I'm thinking nothing of the kind,” the Colonel answered, and he hung back, looking towards the house. Fortunately Darby chose that minute to appear at the door. The butler's face was pale, and showed fatigue; his hair hung in wisps; his clothes were ill-fastened. He threw a glance of contempt, the contempt of the indoor servant, at the sleeping figures, lying here and there in the wet. Thence his eyes travelled on and took in the group by the gate. He started, and wrung his hands in sudden, irrepressible distress. It was as if a spasm seized the man.

The Colonel called him. ”Darby,” he cried. ”Come here, my man.”

O'Sullivan Og opened his mouth; he was on the point of interposing, but he thought better of it, and shrugged his shoulders, muttering something in the Erse.

”Darby,” the Colonel said gravely, ”I've a message for the young master, and it must be given him in his bed. Will you give it?”

”I will, your honour.”

”You will not fail?”

”I will not, your honour,” the old servant answered earnestly.

”Tell him, then, that Colonel Sullivan made his will as he pa.s.sed through Paris, and 'tis now in Dublin. You mind me, Darby?”