"Sir Ludar" (continued 4)

I cannot tell what battles we fought, what knocks we got, or what we gave in return; how night by night we slept, sword in hand, at the maiden’s door; how day by day we sought to escape from the city and could not; how at length, under cover of a notable fray in the streets, we fled back to Leith, where we found a boat and so reached Falkirk. From there, how like so many gipsies we wandered over the hills and among the deep valleys till we came to Lennox, and so once more met the sea on the other side. Then, by what perils of storm and current, in a small row-boat, we crossed to the wild Isle of Arran, on which we were well-nigh starved with hunger and drowned with the rains. And at last, how, using a fine day, we made across to Cantire, where, so soon as Ludar declared his name, we were hospitably received by the McDonnells there, and promised a safe conduct over to Ireland.

From the wild men here—half soldiers, half mariners—we heard—not that I could understand a word of their tongue, but Ludar and the old nurse could—that Sorley Boy, Ludar’s father, was already across, hiding in the Antrim Glynns, where, joined by many a friendly clan, he was waiting his chance to swoop down on the English and recapture his ancient fortress. Turlogh Luinech O’Neill, the maiden’s father, we heard, was still lending himself to the invaders, and in return for the Queen’s favour, holding aloof, if not getting ready to fall upon the McDonnells when the time came. Of these last, Alexander, Ludar’s brother, first and favourite son of the great Sorley Boy (for Donnell, the eldest of all, had been slain in battle), was reputed, next to his father, the bravest; he was also in the Glynns; but James and Randal, his other brothers, were in the Isles, raising the Scots there, and waiting the signal to descend with their gallow-glasses on the coveted coast.

Ludar, had he been alone, would have stayed, I think, to join them. But, with the maiden there, he could think of naught until he had rendered her up safely to her father, foeman though he might be. So to-morrow we were to sail for Castleroe, Turlogh’s fort on the western bank of the River Bann, whence, having left our charge, we would repair, Ludar said, sword in hand to his father’s camp.

At daybreak we quitted the McDonnells’ hut in which we had sheltered and went down to the little harbour in the bay. The long Atlantic waves thundered in from the west as if they would bar our passage, and I wondered much at the peril of crossing that angry channel in so frail a craft.

But Ludar laughed when I questioned him.

“These galleys,” said he, “have carried my fathers on stormier seas than this—ay, and the maiden’s fathers too; therefore they may be trusted to carry you now, Humphrey.”

“I care naught for myself,” said I, “and you know it. Nay, Ludar, if it comes to that, I had as soon be under those waves as upon them.”

He looked at me in his strange solemn way.

“Friend,” he said, “you are unhappy. Was it always so, or is it because I, with a great happiness in me, see more than I once did? Humphrey,” added he, “that maiden has said to me that she loves me. Can you credit it?”

I locked his hand in mine. Would that I could show him to you as he stood there; his face ablaze with triumph, yet almost humbled with his good fortune. Then, as he looked on me, the blaze softened into a look of pity.

“I am selfish,” said he, “while you are far away from her you love. Yet I could not help telling it, Humphrey. Heaven give you the same secret one day to tell me! But here she comes. Take her beside you at the helm. As for me, the light is too strong in my eyes for me to steer. I must be alone here in the prow, till the world take shape again.”

The galley was a long open boat with a single square sail, and thwarts for twelve rowers. To-day six sturdy Scots took the oars, all McDonnells, who wondered much that Ludar should lie forward, leaving the fair maid and me at the helm. As for the old nurse, whose courage revived as the opposite headlands rose up to view, she ensconced herself amidships, and crooned in her native tongue with the rowers. We needed to row many a mile, round the island, before we could hope to hoist our sail. Yet, I could not help marvelling at the vigour of the oarsmen, and at the speed and steadiness of our boat over the billows.

The maiden, who by her blushes when we first met that morning had confirmed Ludar’s story, was content enough to sit in the stern with me, while he courted solitude in the prow. She sat a long while silent, looking seaward, and, I think, with the self-same light in her eyes which dimmed those of Ludar. Presently, however, she turned her face to me and said, almost suddenly:

“Humphrey, tell me more of that maiden you spoke about. Why does she not love you?”

I knew not what to say, the question was so unlooked for. I tried to laugh it off.

“Ask her that,” said I. “Why should she? I am not Sir Ludar.”

“No,” said she gently, and then her face blushed once more, and she dropped silent, looking away seaward.

I was sorry for my churlish speech, and feared it had given her offence. But here I was wrong, for presently she said again:

“Is she the little maid who talks to you at home in French, and whom you carried in your arms. Tell me more of her, Humphrey.”

To please her I obeyed. And somehow, as I recalled all the gentle ways of my sweet little mistress, and the quaint words she had spoken, and, in fancy, saw once again her bright face, and remembered how she had always taken my part and chased away the clouds from my brow—somehow I knew not how, the memory seemed very pleasant to me; and I called to mind more yet, and wondered with myself how little I had had her in my thoughts since last we parted that cruel day in Kingston street.

As I talked, the maiden listened, her eyes stealing now and again to where Ludar lay wrestling with his mighty happiness in the prow, and then returning, half frightened, half pitying, to encourage me to tell her more. Which I did. And then, when all was said, she asked again:

“And why does she not love you?”

“Indeed,” replied I, “I never asked her. Nor do I know if I love her myself.”

She smiled at that.

“May I answer for you? No? At least I love her, Humphrey, and for her sake and yours she shall be a sister to me and—”

“And Ludar,” said I, as she stopped short.

“Yes, to me and Ludar.”

Then we fell to talk about Ludar, and so the day wore on, till, as the sun stood over our heads, we breasted the fair Island of Raughlin.

Here Ludar, with gloomy face, came astern to tell a story.

’Twas neither brief nor merry; but, as he told it with flashing eyes and voice which rose and fell with the dashing waves, we listened with heaving bosoms. ’Twas of a boy, who once played with his comrades on that self-same Island of Raughlin. How in the pleasant summer time he had learned from his noble brothers to draw the bow, and, child as he was, to brandish the spear. How maidens were there, some of whom he called his sisters; and how they sang the wild legends of the coast and told him tales of lovers and fairies and heroes. And how, now and again a white boat came over from the mainland, and on it a noble warrior, gigantic in form, with his yellow locks streaming in the breeze, and the sun flashing on his gilded collar and naked sword. That noble man was the boy’s father, and the scarcely less noble form at his side, less by a head than his sire, yet taller by a head than most of his clansmen, was the boy’s elder brother. And how the boy followed these two wherever they went, and begged them to take him to the wars on the mainland; and they smiled and bade him wait ten years. So he was left with the women and children on the island, while the men went off in galleys to fight the invader. Then one fatal day, how they woke to see white-sailed ships in the offing and boats of armed men landing on the shore, and how in doubt and terror women and children and old men hastened to yonder castle on the hill, and begged the few armed men there stand to their guard.

“Then,” said Ludar, with thunder in his face, “the strangers spread like flies over the fair island and surrounded the castle. To resist was useless. The armed men offered to yield if the women and children and old men were spared. ‘Yield, then,’ said the captain, and the gate was opened. Then the false villains shouted with laughter, and slew the armed men before the eyes of the helpless captives. ‘Bring a torch!’ shouted some. ‘Drive them back into their kennel!’ shouted others. Then a cry went up, so terrible that on the light summer breeze it floated to the mainland, to where on the headland the noble father of that boy stood, like a statue of horror, as the flames shot up. The wretched captives fought among themselves who should reach the door and die on the sword of the enemy rather than by the fire. That boy saw his playmates tossed in sport on the swords of their murderers, and heard his sisters shriek to him—boy as he was—to slay them before a worse death befel. Then he forgot all, except that when, days after, he awoke, he was in the heart of a deep cave into which the sea surged, carrying with it corpses. For a week he stayed there, tended by a rough shepherd, living on seaweed and fish, and well-nigh mad with thirst. At last came a boat; and when that boy woke once more he was in the castle of his noble father, whose face was like the midnight, and whose once yellow hair was as white as the snow.”

“That is the story,” said Ludar. “I was that boy.”

“And the murderers,” said I, falteringly, for I guessed the answer.

“The murderers, Humphrey,” said he, “were of the same race as your worst enemy and mine.”

This gloomy story cast a cloud over our voyage; until, after long silence, during which we sat and watched the rocky coast of the ill-omened Island, the maiden said:

“Sir Ludar, there are older stories of Raughlin than yours. Listen while I sing you of the wedding of Taise Taobhgheal, which befel there when yonder hill was crowned by a beautiful white city, with houses of glass, and when warriors shone in golden armour.”

Then she sang a brave martial ballad of a famous battle, which was fought on those coasts for the hand of the beautiful Taise Taobhgheal. And the clear music of her voice, to which the rowers lent a chorus, helped charm away the sadness of Ludar’s tale, and while away the time till, having rounded the island, we hoisted our brown sail and flew upon the waves past the great organ-shaped cliffs of the mainland.

The sun had long set behind the western foreland ere we caught ahead of us the roar of the surf on the bar which lay across the river’s mouth. Our rowers had passed that way many a time before, and plunged us headlong into the mighty battle of the waters where river and sea met. For a short minute it seemed as if no boat could live in such a whirl; but, before we well knew the danger, we were in calm water within the bar, sailing gaily down the broad, moonlit river.

Then Ludar and the maiden grew sad at the parting which was to come; and I, being weary of the helm, left them and went forward.

Beautiful the river was in the moonlight, with the woods crowding down to its margin, broken now and again by rugged knolls or smooth shining meadows. To me it was strange to be in Ireland and yet have all remind me of my own Thames, all except the wild chant of the foreign rowers.

Many a mile we rowed then, or rather glided. For Ludar bade the men slacken speed and let the night spend itself before we presented ourselves at Castleroe. Therefore we took in the oars after a while and floated idly on the tide.

The old nurse came forward to where I sat, very dismal and complaining.

“Ochone!” said she. “This has been a sore journey, Master Humphrey. My bones ache and my spirits are clean gone. Musha! it’s myself would fain be back in London town after all. There’ll be none to know Judy O’Cahan here; and I’ve nigh forgotten the speech and manners of the place mysel’. And my heart sinks for the sweet maiden.”

“Why, what ails her?” I asked. “Has she not come to her father’s house?”

“Ay, ay, so it’s called, so it’s called. ’Tis Turlogh owns Castleroe, but ’tis my Lady of Cantire owns Turlogh. He durst not bless himself if she forbid. She wants no English step-daughters, I warrant ye; or if she do, ’twill be to buy and sell with, and further her own greedy plans. I know my Lady; and I know how it will fare with my sweet maid. I tell thee, Master Humphrey, Turlogh, brave lad as he was, must now do as his grand Lady bids, and ’twere better far the maiden had stayed in her nunnery school.”

“Why, Judy,” said I, “you forget he sent to England for her; and that now, since this voyage began, she has found a protector who will ease both the lord and lady of Castleroe of her charge.”

She laughed.

“Little you know, master ’prentice. But there comes the dawn.”

Sure enough, in the east, the grey crept up the sky; and at the same time the banks on either side of us rose steeply, while the roar of a cataract ahead warned us that our journey’s end was come.

We waited yet another hour, moored under the bank till the sun lifted his forehead above the hill. Then the note of a bugle close at hand startled us, and Ludar bade us disembark.

Castleroe was a house perched strongly on the western bank of the river, with a moat round, and a drawbridge separating the outer courtyard from the house itself.

As we approached we were loudly challenged by a sentry who called to us in broad English.

“Who goes there? Halt! or by my life you shall have a taste of my musket if you advance further.”

My heart leapt to my mouth. ’Twas not at hearing the English speech once more, but because the fellow’s voice itself was familiar to me. And when a moment later its owner came in view, I saw the man I had met once on the road to Oxford, the same Tom Price who had gone near hanging me for a Jesuit, and afterwards had tempted me to take service in the troop of his master, Captain Merriman, for these Irish wars.

Was it much wonder I gasped aloud, as I saw him?

“Tell Turlogh Luinech O’Neill,” said Ludar, advancing, “that his daughter is come from England, with her ancient nurse. And take us to him, that we may deliver our charge safely into his hands.”

“Ludar,” cried I, taking him by the arm. “Halt, for Heaven’s sake! This is one of Captain Merriman’s men!”

The soldier looked round as I spoke, and recognised me in a trice.

“Hillo!” cried he; “what have we here? My little Jesuit, Lord Mayor of London, as I’m a sinner! And in what brave company! Sure, they told me my lady expected visitors; and here he is with his sweetheart, and old mother, and private chaplain. Woe’s me, the flag is not aloft! So, lad, thou’rt come to join our wars after all, and tell the captain about that duck-weed? And thou shalt, my little Humphrey—you see I even remember your name.”

“One word, Tom Price,” said I, breathlessly, “as you are an honest man. Is the captain here?”

“Here! He is my lady’s honoured guest this three weeks, since he arrived here in a temper enough to sour the countryside. Why, hadst thou run away with his own sweetheart, thou couldst not—”

“Is my father, is Turlogh Luinech O’Neill here, then?” asked the maiden, coming up.

“Thy father!” said the soldier gasping. “Why I took thee for— And art thou, then,” said he, pulling off his cap, “art thou—”

“Yes, yes,” said she, “I am Rose O’Neill. Pray say, is my father here?”

“Madam,” said he, “he left us a week ago for his Castle at Toome. Howbeit my lady—”

“Ludar,” said the maiden, “back to the boat, quick! I will not go in here.”

“Nay, fair angel,” said a voice at our side, “now we have found our truant bird, we must cage her.”

It was Captain Merriman himself, smirking, hat in hand.

Before he could well speak the words, Ludar had sprung at his throat, and hurled him to the ground.

Then ensued a pitiful uproar. The guard, in a moment, turned out upon us. It was useless for two men to stand against twenty; our McDonnells at the boat were beyond call. We fought as long as we could; nor was it till Ludar received a gun shot in his arm, and I a slash that laid bare my cheek-bone, that we knew the game was up. The maiden had been carried off into the house; the old nurse lay in a swoon; three men, besides the captain, were disabled. As for us, we could but stagger to the gateway more dead than alive. Once outside, the gate was closed. The guard from within sent a few flying shots after us, one of which lightened me of my little finger, and another missed Ludar’s knee. Then, seeing us gone and hearing the shouts of our McDonnells, who, at the noise of the shots, had come up to help us, they forbore to follow further and let us get clear.

And it was in this manner we brought Rose O’Neill safely to her father’s house at Castleroe.

Chapter Fourteen.

How Ludar fired the Beacon on Knocklay.

I think, had it not been that Ludar immediately fell into a swoon with the wound in his arm, we should never have got him back to the boat. For such was his wrath and despair that he would have turned and invaded the castle single-handed, preferring to meet his death thus to leaving the maiden in so dire an extremity. As for me, ’twas well I had this new care thrust upon me, or I too might have fallen into a despair scarce less than his.

I guessed, so soon as the panic was over and Captain Merriman brought round, that order would be given to follow and capture us at all hazard. Therefore, so soon as our McDonnells arrived, we bore Ludar among us to the boat, and cast loose without delay. In this we were none too soon, for we had not been long rowing ere a noise of bugles and shouting at the castle gave us to know that the pursuit was begun. Lucky for us, the woods on either bank were too dense to allow them to get within shot of us. Nor, after we had got safely past the town of Coleraine, was there much fear that they (being unprovided with boats), could get at close quarters with us.

Once clear, we looked to my comrade’s wounds. The bullet which had gashed his arm had happily not lodged there; but it had lost him so much blood that, although we bound it up and stanched the flow, it was yet a long while before he recovered life enough to open his eyes. Then he said:

“Whither are we going?”

“Seaward,” said I.

“Leaving her amid wolves,” said he, bitterly.

“’Twould do her no good if we returned,” said I, “to be slain before her eyes. So long as she knows we are safe, there will be hope for her; and she is brave enough to defend herself till we come again.”

Ludar smiled bitterly. He knew, as I did, there was nothing in the words.

“My men,” said he presently to the Scots, “wherever Sorley Boy, my father, is, take me.”

“Sorley Boy is a fox that leaves no tracks,” said one of the men, “but we last heard of him at Bonandonnye.”

“Sail thither,” said Ludar, and fell into silence.

’Twas a strange return voyage that, down that broad river, on the ebb of the self-same tide which had carried us up. Neither of us spoke a word, but as we watched the banks and one another, we wondered if this could be the same world and the same men as a few hours ago. It was a relief presently to meet the salt sea air on our faces, and to hear ahead once more the angry roar of the waves at the river’s mouth.

Just as we reached the place where the channel, narrowing suddenly, tears its way through the sand into the ocean, a posse of horsemen dashed down on the western shore and shouted to us. So near were they, that I could see Tom Price among them, and beside him, that rascally Captain Laker, whom I had seen, or heard, last in Sir William Carleton’s garden at Richmond.

One of the rowers pulled me down to the bottom of the boat just as a volley of shot whizzed over our heads.

“Up now, and row like fiends,” cried our men when it had passed.

“Give me my pistol,” said Ludar, “I have at least one arm.”

So we tore through the water, letting fly at them as best we could while they stood reloading.

Ludar’s aim missed, for he had only his left hand. Mine was more lucky, since it knocked over the villain Laker just as he raised his gun for a second shot.

This saved us; for it gave us time to pull further beyond reach. So that when the next volley came, it pattered harmlessly in the waves around us.

This time we could not duck our heads, for our boat was already in the hurly-burly of the surf, and needed all our skill and all our strength to get her over that angry bar. More than once we were glad to fall back right side uppermost, and more than once we looked to see every timber we had fly asunder. But at last, between two lesser waves, we slipped over, taking in half a boat of water as we did so, but winning clear of the peril; and leaving our pursuers, who had waited to see us perish, to turn back sullenly to report their ill success to their master.

’Twas a far cry to Bonandonnye, which lay behind the Eastern headlands, some four leagues beyond Benmore. Nor durst we approach it the shortest way, because our men had heard that the coast was closely guarded by the English, who made short work of all suspected craft. So we were fain to hoist our sail and stand out to sea, rounding Raughlin on the far side, and running back on Cantire.

There, for a week and more, Ludar lay in a fever, shouting to be taken to his father, yet too weak to turn in his bed. Tenderly his clansmen nursed him (and me, for the matter of that, for I had wounds too), until at least we were both in better trim.

Meanwhile, one of the men had rowed across to the mainland, and come back with the news that Sorley Boy was deep in the woods of Glenshesk, behind the great mountain of Knocklayd, where he was rapidly bringing his forces to a head for a swoop on Dunluce. This news decided Ludar to tarry not a day longer. That very night, as the sun set, we embarked on our boat. It was the time of the autumn gales, and hard enough were we put to it to get safely across. For that very reason, perhaps, we were able to land unobserved by the careless watchmen on the coast, who never dreamed to look for a boat on such a night. Whereas, had they known more of the McDonnell oarsmen, they would have doubled their guard instead of going asleep.

I was glad to find that Ludar, having resolved on the journey, had strength enough to go through with it. Indeed, his step grew firmer every pace we took, and although his brow remained black, and he would, I think, have felled me to the ground had I mentioned the maiden’s name in his ear, yet on other matters his spirits revived.

’Twas a difficult journey from the little bay where we landed to Glenshesk; nor dare we make it in broad daylight. We took care to clad ourselves like herdsmen; yet even so, it would have been a risk to accost a stranger or enter a hut for shelter. For the O’Neills and the English among them had overawed the peasants; and although it was commonly believed the Turlogh would hold aloof in this quarrel, yet he had his own grudge against the McDonnells, and was not lightly to be run against. So we lay hid all day in the thick heather, and at night crossed rapidly at the back of Benmore, and plunged into the woods on the slopes of the dome-like Knocklayd. Ludar seemed to know his way by instinct. The McDonnell had told us where we should meet with a friendly clansman, who would take us to the chief, and had warned us what paths specially to avoid in crossing the mountain. His instructions served us well; and at daybreak we came upon the friendly hut just where we had expected, a little below the summit on the seaward side of the hill.

The man would by no means let us lie in his hut for fear of being seen, but showed us a deep cave in the hill-side, where we (and a score of men beside, had it been needful), might hide.

As we lay there, waiting for night, Ludar, for the first time, referred to what had befallen at Castleroe.

“Humphrey,” said he, “I am torn in two. How can I go out to take a castle, while she lies in the wolf’s clutches yonder? Yet how may I, a loyal man, pursue my private quarrel while my brave father demands my service for the clan in this great enterprise?”

“Maybe,” said I, “in doing the latter you will achieve both ends. For, assuredly, so soon as an alarm is raised for the safety of Dunluce, this Merriman and every trooper he has must come thither; so, the maiden will be left free of him. Besides,” said I, “if what the old nurse says is true, my Lady Cantire is not the woman lightly to abandon her rights in the maiden. She is more likely to hold her as a bait to trap the Captain into some benefit to herself, and to that end she will at least keep her safe out of his clutches for a while.”

Ludar groaned.

“Humphrey,” said he, “you are a glib comforter. Tell me,” he added, “from this height we should surely be able to see Castleroe.”

“Yes,” said I, “I remember seeing this round hill, as we stood parleying with the sentinel.”

Ludar said no more, but sat at the mouth of the cave, looking westward, till sunset.

Then a new resolve seemed to have taken hold of him. He led me to the cairn on the mountain top, where was piled a great heap of wood and briar ready for a beacon fire.

“When shall this be lit?” he asked our guide.

“When Sorley Boy is ready. ’Tis the last signal agreed upon. When Knocklayd is fired, friend and foe, the country round, will march.”

“Then,” said Ludar, “pile up more fuel, and fetch a torch.”

The man and I stared at him in amazement.

“Do you hear?” he thundered. “Am I McDonnell or are you?”

Then when the man, scared and terrified, went off to obey, Ludar said to me:

“I cannot help this, Humphrey. The signal must go out to-night, or all will be too late. Something tells me she is looking this way even now, praying for deliverance. Something tells me, too, that a day’s more delay, and Dunluce is lost to us for ever. This shall bring all to a head, for better or worse.”

“But your father,” said I. “If he be not ready—”

“Sorley Boy McDonnell is always ready,” said Ludar, proudly.

So we stood silent and waited till the shepherd brought the torch.

“Can we see Dunluce from here?” I asked presently.

He took my arm and pointed to where, away in the west, a gleam of moonlight struck the sea.

“There,” said he.

Then, as we both strained our eyes, there arose, as it seemed from that very spot, a strange wild sound, like the rise and fall of some wailing music, which moaned in the air and died away.

“What was that?” I asked.

“Hush!” said he. “Listen.”

It came again, rising almost to a shriek, and sinking again into a sigh.

Once more I looked at Ludar; and once more, with pale face, he motioned me to hold my peace and listen.

A third time the sound came, like a snatch of some mad song, ending in a sob. After it, you could almost feel the silence. We stood rooted to the spot, until presently the footsteps of the herdsman broke the spell. Then Ludar said:

“That is the Banshee. It means that in this business a McDonnell of us will fall. Heaven help us!”

Then, scornfully throwing off the fear which for a moment had seemed to overtake him, he resolutely snatched the torch from the man’s hand and plunged it into the pile.

We stood and watched the fire, as first it crackled amidst the under-layer of twigs and dry heather, then caught the branches above, and finally shot up in a grand tall column of flame skyward, showering high its sparks, and casting a fierce glow far and wide over land and sea.

’Twas a strange, a wondrous sight; yet, as I looked, the midnight fire itself was not so strange as the sight of Ludar standing there, noble, huge and motionless, illumined by the strong light, gazing out with shaded eyes into the far distance. To me it seemed like a scene in some weird play of which I forgot that I was myself an actor.

But as soon as the flame, bursting forth with a great roar, reddened the sky overhead, Ludar drew me to a little distance, and pointed seaward. Then I perceived, suddenly, on our right a twinkle of light which presently increased to a lurid flame. At the same instant on the left appeared a like fire, which in turn was taken up one by one from headland to headland, till the whole coast from Cushindun to Ramore was ablaze; even on the far distant Donegal headlands there glimmered a responsive signal. A wondrous sight indeed, with the Atlantic almost at our feet, reflecting angrily back the glare of the fire, and traversed by paths of light each seeming less fierce as the distance increased, until from the remotest there travelled but a tiny streak. Above, the sky still more fiercely carried the red signal; while from their rocks swooped up the great army of sea-birds and flew crying out to sea.

Thither my two comrades still eagerly gazed. Though scarce five minutes had passed since the first flame shot aloft, the impatience of the herdsman became extreme, and he muttered angrily through his clenched teeth as he strained his eyes into the irresponsive darkness.

“Altacarry!” exclaimed he at length, when presently, on the point of Raughlin, a light shot up.

“And Cantire!” he added, when, later, the eagerly looked for light on the Scottish mainland broke aloft and mingled its glare with that of the Antrim fires.

Then, at last, Ludar relaxed his motionless posture, and taking my arm, plunged hastily from the summit, with the herdsman before us for a guide.

Half-way down, the guide halted and pointed out two new signals inland. One to our right, the other straight before us.

“Yonder,” said he, pointing to the right, “comes from the O’Cahan’s country beyond the Bann, above Castleroe, where be English troops; that in front shows that Sorley Boy is afoot already. ’Tis a wily fox,” added the man (talking as they all did in their Irish tongue), “among these score of lights, who shall say which is his, or whither he foregathers? But we know!”

Presently we dropped into the marshland at the base of the hill, and lost all save the red glare in the sky above us. By many a cunning path the man led us, between bogs, through woods, and over piled-up rocks, till we stood on a new hill-side, and caught sight again of the distant beacons. That on Knocklayd, behind us, was already burning low; but it had done its work. For, as we mounted higher, a dozen new fires inland met our view; and, standing for a moment to look, our ears caught a distant sound of shouting, and the clattering of horses’ feet.

We were now, our guide told us, looking down into the deep vale of Glenshesk, at the head of which the chieftain lay. A wild impassable valley it looked, crowded with forest, and flanked with rugged mountain. I could scarcely wonder, as I looked down, at the tales the man had told us, of how, in time of war, the country people would drive their cattle, together with the women and children, far into the depths of these glens for safety, while they went out to meet the enemy on the seaboard; or of how, tempting him to follow the booty up one of these, they had caught him many a time in a trap between two fires, and cut him to pieces.

The descent into the valley was perilous enough even for us. For the greater part of the way we had to swing ourselves down by the trees, many of which threatened to break under our weight and hurl us headlong to the bottom. But when, at last, we reached the stony land below, it was easier walking, and we reached the stream in safety.

Here we halted impatiently till morning.

“Humphrey,” said Ludar, “by this time, unless we have ventured for naught, an alarm has gone out which will send Merriman out of Castleroe, and bring back Turlogh into it. So far, we have done well. But unless Sorley Boy reach Dunluce quickly, the enemy will be in the place before us, and we shall have done harm. Why do they not come? If I had but fifty men like you, Humphrey, we need not be sitting thus.”

But sit we did, till the sun looked at us over the hill. Then Ludar could wait no longer, but summoned me to my feet, and stalked up the valley. We had gone about an hour, when a loud tramp and shouting ahead, together with a vision of wild figures on the hills on either hand, told us that the long expected meeting had come at last. The next turn of the valley brought us full in view of the McDonnell host. It stretched in a wild irregular line far up the glen, the men marching four or five abreast, armed, some with spears, some with swords and bucklers, others with bows, and a very few with firearms. They sang a loud wailing song as they marched, mingled with cries of defiance, and now and then of laughter. But what moved me most was the aspect of the two men who marched a dozen paces in the front of all.

The elder was a giant, huge of limb, towering above his clan like Saul, in the Bible, among his Israelites. His white hair hung wildly on his shoulders, and tossed defiantly with every step he took. He may have been seventy years of age, yet his face was knit as hard as a warrior’s of thirty, and he stepped out as lissom and quick as his youngest gallowglass. Yet all this was as nothing to the noble sadness of his face and the blaze of his deep, blue eyes, which, had I not known it already, would have betrayed him to me anywhere as Ludar’s father. The younger warrior at his side, a man of thirty-five, joyous of mien, his yellow hair glistening in the sunlight, and his massive form (only less massive than his father’s), moving with a careless ease, it was not hard to guess was Alexander, the darling of the clan and the pride of his father’s life.

Seeing us in the path, they suddenly halted, while the musketeers behind levelled their pieces.

But Ludar stepped solemnly forward.

“Father, I am Ludar,” said he.

The old man uttered a quick exclamation and stepped back a pace to look at this stalwart man, whom he had seen last a young boy ten years ago. Then, with a face as solemn as that of his son’s, he laid his great hand on the lad’s shoulder and said:

“Thou art come in good time, Ludar, my son.”

That was all the greeting that passed betwixt these two; for immediately the march began again, the old man stalking first alone, and the two brothers (who had kissed at meeting), following, arm in arm. ’Twas a noble sight those three great men—the old chief and his first and last born sons. But to my mind, much as I loved my master, Sorley Boy was the grandest of the three. While he was by, a man could look at no one else. Every gesture, every toss of the head, and swing of the arm had force in it; and to me it seemed a wonder that such a man should need an army at his back to carry him anywhere he willed.

He halted again presently, and wheeled round on his sons.

“Why did you fire the beacon?” he asked of Ludar.

“Because the time had come,” said Ludar. “To-day Dunluce is slenderly guarded; to-morrow it will be full of the enemy.”

Then he coloured up with a flush as he added:

“Father, I demand a favour—the first for ten years.”

“It is granted, lad. I know what it is. You shall take the castle.”

Then Ludar grew radiant, as he clutched his father’s hand and thanked him for this mighty honour. And Alexander seemed scarcely less happy for his young brother’s sake.

“We be a thousand armed man,” said the old chief (he spoke in his own tongue, to which even I was growing somewhat familiar by now). “Take three hundred with you, Ludar, my son, and turn westward. Alexander, with three hundred more, shall march to the sea, northward, as we go now. I, with the rest, will strike eastward to Bonandonnye. To-morrow, boy, if Dunluce be not yours, Alexander shall come to take it for you. The day after, if you both fail, I shall be there myself with the clansmen from the Isles, who are already upon the sea. Here we part company, lads. When we meet again one of us shall not see the other two. Last night I heard the Banshee.”

“And I,” said Alexander.

“And I,” said Ludar.

“Farewell, then,” said Sorley Boy. “Do you, Ludar, choose your three hundred and begone. After you, Alexander do the same. I will take the rest. The pipers shall come with me to draw the enemy eastward.”

The division was soon made. Ludar chose the clansmen who knew best the parts about Dunluce and the country we should have to cross to reach it. In an hour we were ready to start.

“Farewell,” said the old chief. “We meet all at Dunluce two days hence.”

“Dead or alive,” said Alexander.

Then the order was given to march, and we turned suddenly up the westward slope of the glen, the men behind us shouting, “Dunluce! Froach Eilan! Ludar!” till our several parties lost sight of one another. Then Ludar ordered silence and speed; and so, all day long, we tramped over the rugged hills and across the deep valleys; till, near sundown, Ludar, having halted his men in a deep-wooded hollow, took me forward and brought me to the summit of a little green hill. Here he took my arm and pointed ahead.

“Dunluce!” said he.

Chapter Fifteen.

How Ludar took Dunluce.

At first I saw nothing but a jagged line of cliff-top, lower than where we stood, with the sea beyond. Then I perceived that where Ludar pointed the line broke suddenly, and disclosed a great naked rock standing alone, sheer out of the water which leapt wildly all round it and thundered into the cave at its base. I looked further. I saw a narrow bridge across the chasm, while what I had first thought to be rugged piles of rock took the form of grim battlements and towers, rising so straight from the edge of the rock that I had thought them a part of it. Across the bridge frowned an angry portcullis. As the place stood, it looked as if one man could hold it against a thousand, so unapproachable did it seem. On our side the bridge, on the mainland, was a large courtyard or barrack, with an outer wall and moat round it, of itself no easy place to carry; and when, beyond that, hung this angry castle, perched like an eagle over the sea, I marvelled not so much that the McDonnells should hope to take it, as that they should ever have lost it.

I could understand Ludar’s excitement as he stood there and gazed at this old fortress of his fathers, with the standard of the foreign invader floating above its top-mast tower. He said nothing; yet, I could tell by the heaving of his chest, what thoughts were passing in his mind, what hatred of the usurper, what impatience to stand once more on those battlements and fling open the gate to his noble father.

The light faded from the sky as we stood there, until turrets and rock and flag melted away into a common blackness, and left us only the thunder of the waves in the hollows below, to tell us where Dunluce stood. Then Ludar led me quickly back to his men.

We found no little stir afoot. For the McDonnells’ scouts had come in with a man of the English garrison whom they had found foraging for meat; while, almost at the same moment, a herdsman from Ramore (which was a district westward of us), had come to tell us news of the enemy.

Ludar heard the soldier first.

“We be but thirty men in yonder hold,” said he. “For so soon as the alarm spread that Castleroe and the town of Coleraine were to be attacked, fifty of our guard and three cannon were drawn away thither this very morning. I know it, for I stood sentinel when Captain Merriman—”

“He! is he there?” demanded Ludar.

“No, in truth,” said the soldier, “’twas he rode over from Castleroe and took away half our men, leaving us, in place, a parcel of puling women to mind, whom he might have kept with better grace at Castleroe.”

“And who are these women?” asked Ludar with heightened colour.

“They say the fair one is a sweetheart of his own—a straight enough lass, but not of the sort I would willingly undertake myself. Some say she is kinswoman to the O’Neill or his lady, whom the captain was sent to guard hither; but, to my thinking, he was on his own business more than Turlogh’s, and when this fighting be over we shall see him come back for his ladybird. I pray you, gentles,” continued this man, who was of a careless sort, and distressed by no mischance, “permit me to return to the castle with this brace of birds. They are, in fact, for this same young lady, to whom our coarse fare hath little to recommend it, and who, being sickly, needs a dainty. I stand a fair chance to be shot for a truant when I get back; yet I may as well be that as hanged here by your worships. The only difference will be that the maiden will get her supper in one case, and miss it in the other.”

“Go back,” said Ludar. “If you be a liar, you are a rare one; if you be not, you are an honest fellow, and can be trusted to report nothing of what you have seen here.”

“That will I not,” said the man. “But when I see thee on the drawbridge, I shall let fly at thee, by your leave, as at an enemy of my Queen.”

“You shall,” said Ludar. “I would scorn you if you did not. But hearken, take the maiden this flower (and he pulled a poppy flower from the grass), and tell her, before it droop he who sent it will be in Dunluce.”

“Marry will I,” said the soldier, laughing. “But thou wilt need to hasten, my master, for poppies fade fast. And if, as I expect, thou get no further than the bridge, or over the edge of it, you may trust me to look to the lady for your honour’s sake.”

So the man departed amidst not a few murmurings from our men, who understood not letting an enemy go scot free, unless it were to betray his party into their hands.

The other fellow, one of the men of the Route, who served which ever party he must, confirmed what the Englishman had said respecting the movements of the enemy. Sorley Boy had for weeks past let it be hinted, that when he came to strike, it would be at the Castle on the Bann on the one hand, and at Knockfergus, far to the south, on the other. Therefore, while Turlogh Luinech O’Neill tarried at Toome to watch what passed in the latter region, Captain Merriman strengthened Coleraine and the forts on the Bann in order to hold the former. Meanwhile, Sorley Boy, having thus made the enemy busy elsewhere, was coming down, as I have said, betwixt the two, at Dunluce. No doubt but the English suspected some scheme, for they withdrew only parts of their garrisons along the coast, depending on the natural strength of Dunluce and the other castles to hold off any attack till succour should arrive. But since the old fox never showed front till he was ready to spring, no one knew exactly where to expect Sorley Boy; whereby the enemy was forced to remain scattered, in little companies, all along the coast, from Larne to the Bann Mouth. At any rate, said the man, after the signals with Cantire last night, no one would expect the blow to fall till the Scottish clansmen were landed, which might be this time to-morrow.

Ludar bade the man remain in their company, and then called me and two others of his chief men aside.

“’Tis plain,” said he, “our chance is now or never. Give the men time to sup, and then take forward your guns and have at them in front. You two,” said he, addressing the two Scots, “with the main body are to carry the outworks, and pounding at the enemy’s gate, keep him busy to landward. Humphrey, and I, and twenty more must try the sea front. As soon as you hear us shout from within, let drive every bolt you have, and the place is ours.”

“But,” said I, “you said that on the seaward side the place is unassailable.”

“It is, except to McDonnells. I did not play on these rocks for naught when a boy. Only pick me out twenty resolute men, and bring them round secretly to the first break in the cliffs eastward. I shall be there.”

’Twas easy to find twenty men ready for the venture. Nay, the hard thing was to take no more than twenty, for a hundred were eager to come. No sooner were we started, than the main body, as agreed, leapt from their hiding-place, and marched rapidly on Dunluce.

Our guide took us a mile eastward of the castle, where at the head of the narrow gully that led from the cliff to the shore, stood Ludar, pistol in hand, waiting for us. He turned silently as we came up, and, motioning to us to follow, began at once the steep descent. The cleft was so narrow that one man could only lower himself at a time, and that swinging as often as not by his elbows and hands. For me it was harder work than for the active redshanks. As for Ludar, he stood at the bottom, while I, with half the troop growling at my back, was stuck midway. Yet we all reached the bottom in time; and as we did so, the boom of a gun from the rocks above us told that our men were already before the castle knocking for entrance.

Then we waded and scrambled in the darkness at the water’s edge, till we came to the base of the great black rock on which the fortress stood. Often we were wading waist-deep in the pools, and often on hands and knees drawing ourselves over the surf-swept ledges. Ludar seemed to know every step of the way, despite the years that had passed since as a boy he hunted there for sea-birds, nor was he in the humour now to slacken speed for us who knew not when we put out one foot, where we should land with the other.

Above us, the noise of the guns was already lost in the thunder of the waves as they echoed in the cave under the castle rock. It seemed, as we stood there and looked up, that not a foot further could we go. The great angry cliff beetled over our heads, and on its very edge, far above, we might discern against the gloomy sky the dim corner of a buttress.

But it was not here that Ludar meant us to ascend. “Now, my men,” said he, “put your powder in your bonnets and follow me.”

Whereupon he took a step up to his neck in the deep water, and started to swim. One by one we followed him, armed and clad as we were, into the angry surf. ’Twas a perilous voyage, and had not the tide been full and high above the rocks, we should not have come out of it, some of us, sound in limb or wind. Once or twice as I was flung upwards with a swirl almost upon the jagged cliff, I thought my last hour was come, and wondered whose eye would be dim at the news of my end. Then, when, with a like swirl I was heaved back into the safety of deep water, I thought what a big venture was this, and who would not follow when Ludar led?

So, I scarce know how, we rounded the mouth of that resounding cave and stood panting on the narrow ledge on the far side. I say, we stood—yet not all. Of the twenty-two men who had plunged, only nineteen foregathered at the far side.

“’Twas bravely swum,” said Ludar, “and though it has cost McDonnell three brave sons, it has won him Dunluce. I promise you, we shall go back by land.”

I asked him, where next? and he pointed up to what seemed a rock as sheer and threatening as ever we had met on the other side. Nay, on this side, the castle itself seemed to hang clean over the edge.

“There is a path, I remember,” said he, “by which in old days the McQuillans came down to the cave. I went up it myself as a boy. See here.”

And he led us a few steps round, as if back towards the cave; where was an iron spike driven into the smooth rock a little above the edge of the water.

He reached forward at this, and swung himself out over the water till his feet rested on a narrow ledge beyond, scarce the width of his boot, at the water’s edge. Above this was a jutting nose of rock by which he raised himself on to the peg itself, and from that, by a long stride, on to a safer ledge above.

“Follow me,” he cried, “and look not back.”

Painfully and clumsily I achieved the perilous stride, and found myself at the entrance of a crack in the rock, into which the waves below dashed and thundered, and then, beaten back, shot up in an angry column high over our heads, descending with a whirl that all but swept us headlong from our perch.

Up this rift I watched Ludar clamber, losing him now and again in the shooting foam, and now and again, as the spray cleared off, seeing him safe, and ever a foot higher than before. How I followed him ’twould be hard to say. Yet the rock seemed riven into cracks which gave us a tolerable foothold, the better as we got higher up; and had it not been for the constant dash of the water, and the darkness, it might have been accounted passable enough. As it was, but for Ludar’s strong arm above me, I should have lost my feet twice, and in my fall, perchance, might have carried away one or more of those who followed.

When we reached the top of the rift, a still worse peril awaited. For now we had to crawl painfully for some distance along a narrow edge on the face of the naked rock, with little hold for our hands, and, since the ledge slanted downward and was wet and slippery with the spray, still less for our feet. Even Ludar, I could see, was at a loss. But to halt now was useless; to turn back impossible. So, gripping as best he might at the rugged rock, he stepped boldly on to the ledge. I could but follow. Yet, at the first step, my feet slid from under me, and but that my hands held firm I should have been headlong. Inch by inch hugging the cliff, with our backs to the sea, we crawled over that treacherous ledge, sometimes slipping to our knees, sometimes hanging sheer by our hands.

Once, in a moment of weakness, I looked back to see how our men were faring. As I did so, a youth, next after me, a tall, brave youth who had been foremost in all the peril, suddenly staggered and slipped. For a moment he hung by hand and knee to the ledge; the next with a loud groan he fell backwards into the darkness. I heard the crash of his body on the rocks below, and, in my horror, my own grip for an instant relaxed, and I felt myself following. But a strong hand caught me and held me up, and Ludar said:

“Humphrey, are you a fool? Lookup, man, or you are lost.”

After that I had eyes for naught but the cliff before me. And although, before that terrible passage was ended, I heard five more groans and as many more crashes on the rocks below, I managed to keep my own footing, till at last, with my head in a whirl, I stood beside Ludar on a broader, straighter ledge, within a dozen feet of the cliff-top.

Ludar was pale, and his breath came and went hard, as he made room for me beside him. He too had heard those terrible crashes.

“That path,” said he, “is easier passed by a boy than a man. Had I known what it would cost us— Yet, come on now!”

There was indeed no time to tarry, for the men behind—all that were left of them—came up, and we must perforce move forward to make them room.

Now, once more we heard the guns above, and a mighty shouting on the far side of the Castle. But, towards us, all frowned black and solitary.

The short distance yet to climb compared with what we had passed, was easy. For, steep as it was and often overhanging the sea, the rock here was rough and dry, and our feet held fast. Just as we came to the top, Ludar turned.

“Follow close, my men; shout, and discharge your pieces if you can,” called he, “and once entered, make for the drawbridge.”

Almost as he spoke, we heard a shout above us, and the report of a musket discharged into the darkness. A sentinel had heard our voices, and this was his greeting.

Next moment I saw Ludar on the top, struggling with a man. It was too dark to discern which was which; but a moment later, one of the two staggered a step backwards to the edge. There was a yell, a shower of loose earth; then, as I stood below clinging to the rock, a dark mass fell betwixt me and the sky, brushing me as it passed, and bounding from the ledge below with a hideous crash out into the deepness.

I stood there an instant as cold and pulse-less as the stone against which I leaned. What if this were Ludar who had fallen?

A voice from above restored me to life.

“Quick there, come up, and the place is ours!”

In a moment I stood beside him on the narrow edge of grass between the castle wall and the brink. We could hear the shouts and firing away at the gate, but not a soul was left here to bar our passage. Even the sentinel’s shot had passed unheeded. There was a low window leading to one of the offices of the castle, through which we clambered. Next moment we found ourselves standing within the walls of Dunluce.

“Froach Eilan!” shouted Ludar, drawing his dirk and waving on his men.

“Froach Eilan! Ludar!” shouted we, some of us discharging our pieces to add to the uproar, while one man exploded a swivel gun which stood on the seaward battlement.

The effect was magical. There was a sudden pause in the fighting at the bridge. Then rose a mighty answering cry from our McDonnells outside; while the garrison, caught thus between the two fires, looked this way and that, not knowing against which foe to turn.

Though we were but thirteen—nay, only twelve, for the English sentinel in his fall had swept yet another of our brave fellows from the ledge—it was hard for any one to say in the darkness how many we were or how many were yet behind; and the thirty defenders to the place, when once the panic had spread, were in no mood for waiting to see. Many of them laid down their arms at once. Some, still more terrified, attempted to descend the rocks, and so perished; others plunged boldly into the gulf, and there was an end of them.

Ludar meanwhile rushed to the bridge. Many a brave fellow to-night had met his fate on that narrow way. For so far, no assault from our men without had been able to shake the strong portcullis, or make an opening on the grim face of the fortress. Indeed, it seemed to me, a single child in the place might have defied an army, so unassailable did it appear. Our men had carried easily the outer courtyard across the moat, driving the slender garrison back, with only time to lower the gate and shut themselves within before the assault began. But, though they thundered with shot and rock, all was of no avail. The guns of the besieged swept the narrow bridge on either side, and scarce a man who ventured across it returned alive.

Now, all was suddenly changed. Ludar, with a wild shout, fell on the keepers of the gate within and drove them from their post. So sudden was his onslaught, that none had time to ask whence he came or how many followed him. Only a handful of soldiers withstood us. Among these was the gay English fellow whom we had let go an hour or so back; and who now, true to his word, rushed sword in hand at Ludar. I wondered to see what Ludar would do, for kill the fellow I knew he would not. He met the Englishman’s sword with a tremendous blow from his own sheathed weapon, which shivered it. Then with his fist he felled him to the ground, and, thus stunned, lifted him and laid him high on a parapet of the wall till he should come to.

Ere this was done, I and the rest of our men were at it, hand to hand with the few fighting men of the garrison that remained. It did not take long, for there were but half-a-dozen of them, and valiantly as they fought, we were too many and strong for them. One by one they fell or yielded, all except one stout man, the constable of the place, Peter Gary by name, who fought as long as he could stand, and then, before our eyes, flung first his sword, then himself, headlong from the cliff.

That ended the matter. Next moment, the English flag—alas! that I should say it—tumbled from the battlements; and with shouts of “Ludar! Froach Eilan!” the portcullis swung open, and Dunluce belonged once more to the McDonnells.

Leaving us to guard the tower where most of the enemy had shut themselves, Ludar stalked off to a remote corner of the castle; whence in a short time he returned and called me.

“Humphrey,” said he, “the maiden is safe, thank God. Go to her and see what she and the old nurse may need. I have other work to do. Friend,” added he, “is this all a dream? Is this indeed the castle of my fathers? and when Sorley Boy comes, shall it be I who will give it into his hands?”

“You and no other,” said I, “for the place is yours.”

“Alas!” he said, “at what cost! When I heard my brave men fall from the cliff like sheep, Humphrey, I was minded not to stay there myself. But adieu now. To the maiden! Keep her safe for me.”

He waved his hand and stalked to the gate, where I watched him, erect, amid his cheering clansmen, with a joyous smile on his face such as I had rarely seen there before, and which I knew belonged in part to the noble chieftain, his father, and in part to his true love, the maiden.

Alas! ’twas many a long day before I was to see him smile again like that, as you shall hear.

For the present, I went light at heart to the maiden, whom I found pale, indeed (for she had been ill), but serene and happy. The old nurse, who, I thought, ill liked my intrusion, forbade me to weary her young mistress with talk or questions.

“A plague on every man of you,” growled the old woman. “You’re only matched by the women, who be worse. Did I not tell you, Humphrey Dexter, my Lady Cantire would be no friend to my sweet mistress? ’Twas in vain the silly child tried to wheedle her over. Wheedle the Tether Stake! My lady bade her be civil to the Captain, if she would please her step-dame. And when the maiden put down her little foot at that, she was clapped within walls like a rogue, and fed on bread and water. Little harm that would have done, had not the captain himself served her as jailer, and every day thrust his evil presence into our company. I tell thee, Humphrey, that maiden hath fought as well as you or any of them; and shame on your sex, say I, that this devil should be one of you! Ill? No wonder if she was ill; with not a soul to pity her save a poor old body like me. Where’s her father, to leave her thus? Eh, you mug-faced champion, you?”

“Indeed, Judy,” said I, taken aback, “’tis a terrible case; but you cannot blame me.”

“Not blame you! when instead of playing soldier you might have ridden to Toome and brought Turlogh to help us? Take shame on yourself; and, when you see the maiden weak and white, thank God her death be not on your head. For dead she would have been, like the brave maid she is, before ever she would have looked at this fellow-countryman of yours. He thought he had her safe, forsooth, when he whipped her off here and took the key with him. Fiend! Little wonder if she hates the name of you English!”

I grew angry at this, and told her she was a churlish old woman and had best leave me in peace till her temper was better. So we parted ill friends; I to guard the door, she to carry her waspish tongue where she list.

Chapter Sixteen.

How Sorley Boy McDonnell came Home to his own.

I was not left for long to a solitary watch at the maiden’s tower. For, just as dawn began to break, and my head, after the labours of the night, began to nod, I was roused with a thwack betwixt my jaw and my ear which sent me backwards to the ground. When I picked myself up, I found it was the English fellow whom Ludar had put snugly to roost on the parapet an hour or two since. He had come to in no very merry frame of mind; and, finding the castle in the hands of the besiegers, and his own life not worth an hour’s purchase, was minded to hit out a bit for his Queen before giving up the ghost.

More than that, I suspect, he was a little jealous to find me on guard at the maiden’s tower, where, till now, he had stood sentinel. Anyhow he caught me a crack which I have scarce forgotten yet, and which might have left me lying on my back to this day, but for the blow which Ludar had dealt him first.

He was unarmed, so that I could not make an end of him as shortly as I was minded. Nor had I sword to offer him to cross with mine; so I had him by the leg and the collar and walked him to the cliff’s edge.

“You will do less harm down there,” said I, “than here. So say your prayers.”

“As you please, comrade,” said he. “I should have sooner have had breakfast first. As for the blow I gave you, I thought you saw me come at you, else I would have woke you up first, and knocked you down next.”

I set him down at that.

“If that be so,” said I, “you are not the cur I took you for; for I had no business to be nodding. Stay here, and I will fetch you a sword, and you shall die like an Englishman.”

“I ask nothing better,” said he, “even if it be at the hands of an Englishman turned traitor.”

That took the spirit clean out of me. Was it not true? Was not this fellow a truer servant of her Majesty than I, who for months had done naught but break her laws, assault her mayors, fire on her flag, and slay her soldiers? Yet, how could I help it?

The fellow’s gibe made me so miserable that instead of fetching him a sword, I gave him mine, and bade him do to me as I deserved.

He laughed.

“By my soul, no!” said he. “If you be a servant of her Majesty, ’tis not for me to touch you. If you be not, the sword belongs to you, and I call it no shame to die by it. Yet, if you are minded to fetch me a weapon, I warrant you I shall not run away till you come again.”

So I went and fetched him a sword. And we fought there a half-hour by the clock, till our breath failed us, and never a blow could we get home on one another. I had no stomach for the business; and yet, when I found him so stubborn a swordsman, my blood got up, and I think I should have run him through if I could. But he had no mind to let me, and put me to it hard to keep my own skin whole.

So we halted to fetch breath, and before we could go to it again, the maiden came out of her lodging and stood betwixt us.

“Put by your swords,” said she, “I command you both. What is your quarrel? and have you no work for your captain, that you thus bring civil war into his castle?”

“By your leave, fair maiden,” said the Englishman, “no man here is my captain. This brave lad is an enemy to my Queen; therefore it is my duty to slay him.”

“If so,” said the maiden, “I too must be slain, for I love not your Queen.”

“But you be no traitor like this—”

Here I whipped out my sword, and we were at it again, ere the maiden, with flashing eyes, could step once more between us.

“Humphrey Dexter!” cried she in a voice I hope I may not hear from her lips again, “give me your sword, sir.”

I obeyed meekly. ’Twould have been impossible to do aught else.

“And you, sir,” said she, turning to the Englishman, “give me yours.”

“Marry! ’tis yours already,” said he, handing it up. “Mine was shivered by a blow from the young McDonnell, and I am his prisoner. But, by your leave,” added he, looking hard at me, “did you call this honest lad Humphrey Dexter? Why, may I perish if it is not the same swashbuckling ruffler I once knew in London town! I thought I had seen his gallows face before! Why, Humphrey, my lad, dost thou remember how I cracked thy skull at quarter-staff a year since in Finsbury Fields, and how thy Jack ’prentices groaned to see thee bite the dust? I liked thee none the less for it, though I beat thee. For ’twas a fair fight! Come, since ’tis thou, give us thy hand, and tell me how thou comest here amongst the enemies—”

“Ay, ay, I’ll tell you,” said I, not wanting to hear the end of the sentence.

Sure enough, this was a brawling soldier lad I had once met in the fields—Jack Gedge, by name—with whom I had had a bout at the quarter-staff. But he lied vilely when he said he beat me thereat; for, although he felled me once, I had him down three times, and the last time so that he had to be carried from the place by his legs and arms.

Howbeit, ’twas strange enough to see him here; and when, after the maiden had left us (having restored us our swords under promise of peace), I told him my story, he took my hand, and said, had he been in my shoes, he had been a traitor too. Yet he thanked his God he stood in his own.

And now, it may have been ten o’clock, there came a great shouting and noise of guns from the outer walls, and presently Ludar came into the hold, sword in hand, and told us that Captain Merriman and his soldiers had arrived from Castleroe, and were preparing to assault the place.

“Humphrey,” said he, “whate’er betide, I commit the maiden to your care, till this fighting be over. This prisoner of mine,” added he, pointing to the soldier, “will also stand by you, unless I mistake him.”

“Marry! so will I,” said the man; “for a maiden in distress is no alien to a true servant of the maiden Queen. Count on me for so much, Captain.”

“I do. Humphrey, I must go out and meet my enemy. He is in force, and must be scattered before he can blockade our ill-provisioned hold. Capture it he cannot; but he may starve it.”

“Go then,” said I. “Yet, will you not see the maiden first? She would be sorry not to bid you god-speed.”

He seemed for a moment as though he would refuse. Then a look of great longing came into his face as he glanced up at the turret window.

While he debated, a messenger arrived with news that Alexander McDonnell and his men were at hand, and that the English—seeing their constable hang from the walls on one side (for we had found his body, and displayed it thus as a signal of our triumph), and hearing the shouts of the McDonnells on the other—were falling back, and making ready to turn tail.

It was even so. While he spoke, we could see on the cliffs eastward the McDonnell standard, and hear the shouts of Alexander’s company as they bore down upon the English, who for a moment ceased their assault on the castle, and turned doubtfully to face them.

Ludar laughed.

“If Alexander be there,” said he, “our minds may be easy. Call in our men, and keep them within the walls. For he who yielded me the glory of taking Dunluce, shall not be robbed by me of the glory of sending these knaves packing. It needs not two McDonnells to do that. Humphrey see to this, keep a watch how the battle goes, and come again presently. You know where to find me.”

And he went, with a light heart, into the maiden’s tower.

I know not why, I grudged to see him go in. ’Twas not jealousy—I was beyond that now. Nor was it that his help was needed without. For Alexander, I guessed, would have easy work with the foe; and ’twas like Ludar’s nobleness to leave this new glory to his brother. ’Twas not that he did not deserve the rest and comfort, for he had worked like a lion that night, and denied himself till now the greeting the maiden owed to her preserver. Yet, for all that, I know not why, I had sooner he had remained, sword in hand, on the walls with us.

I scorned myself for my silly qualms, and hastened to call in our men, and bid them give fair field to Alexander and his company. They obeyed with difficulty; yet, when they heard that it was Ludar’s order that no man should baulk his brother, they came in, and lined the walls to view the combat.

The McDonnells on the cliff, when they saw the constable hang over the castle walls, and perceived the great bunch of heather on our topmost tower, stopped a moment to cheer and wave their bonnets. Then Alexander shouted to them in a voice we could hear half-a-mile away, and they broke into a run.

Meanwhile, Captain Merriman’s party was, as I said, taken aback by this new danger, and threatened to draw off. But when they saw our party retire into the castle, and understood that the battle was between them and Alexander only, they stood their ground again, and wheeled round to meet him. They were some five hundred men against the McDonnells’ three hundred, and contained not a few of O’Neill’s men in their number.

From where we stood we could see but little of the fight, except that within a few yards of the enemy Alexander halted his men, and then, stepping forward sword in hand, boldly dared the English leader, whoever he might be, to single combat. I marvelled to see if Captain Merriman would accept the challenge. For a while, amid the shouting and threatening on either side, I could not discern what followed, but presently, as Alexander, brandishing his sword, stepped up and repeated his challenge, there sprang out upon him, without warning, a huge gallowglass of the O’Neill’s men, who with a club smote the young chief to the earth. The blow was so sudden and unexpected (for Alexander was not even looking that way), that the McDonnell was reeling back in the arms of his men before friend or foe knew what had happened. Then, with a terrible yell, the Scots seized their weapons and closed on the enemy.

But Alexander, staggering to his feet, his head streaming blood, called to them once more to halt, as he leapt forward, half stunned, on his assailant. The duel was short and swift. For at the first onset the great gallowglass, amazed to see his man yet living, and ashamed, perchance, of his foul stroke, missed his mark and tumbled in a heap upon his foeman’s sword. Then with a mighty shout (for all thought this was the English leader slain), the two bands closed in, and a deadly fight began.

But I kept my eye on Alexander, whom, despite his prowess, I could see to be wounded hard. Gradually, as his men fell on the enemy and the battle roared off eastward, he himself drooped, and drew out of the fray. I could see him stand a moment, waving his sword, but his body swayed like that of a drunken man, and he leaned at last against a rock to keep from falling.

Then it was, before I could determine whether to warn Ludar of this accident or no, that a horrible deed was done.

For I was not the only one who had kept his eyes on the wounded chief. While he stood there fainting, yet still shouting his men forward, Captain Merriman (an Englishman!) who had lagged behind his host, crept stealthily round the hill to where he stood, and suddenly fronting him, dared the dying man to single combat! From where I stood I could mark the curl of scorn on the young chief’s lips, as he drew himself up and strove to lift his drooping arm. Next moment the English captain’s weapon flashed between, and as Alexander fell the coward’s blade plunged through him twice.

Instantly a mighty cry went up from the enemy, for Captain Merriman, waving his bloody sword above his head, ran through the ranks yelling, “Victory! McDonnell is slain!” and the McDonnells, when they heard the shout, reeled under it in a panic and were slain by the score.

As for me, I had stood there like a lump of stone, not able to stir or shout. But at last, by a huge effort, I sprang to the ground, and with a cry of horror rushed to find Ludar.

I found him standing on the cliff-edge, grave and happy, with the maiden beside him, looking down at the great Atlantic waves as they flung their eternal surge up at the castle rock. His sword lay on the ground at her feet. She was fixing a tuft of flowers in his cap, singing softly as she did so. And he, as he gazed now at her, now at the sea below, looked as if cloud could never come more between the sun and his noble face.

Alack! that I myself must bring the cloud.

“Ludar to the front! Something is wrong. Your brother—”

May I never hear again the cry with which he snatched up his sword and rushed to the gate!

I followed close to his heels, only bidding the maiden get to her tower whither I would send her English squire to guard her. But Ludar, as we reached the gate, turned and ordered me back.

“Stay,” said he, hoarsely, and white as a sheet, “stay here!”

Then, as he waited for the portcullis to open, I hastily told him what I had witnessed, and where he would find his brother.

“My brother!” he groaned, “my brother! Humphrey, if I ever return here it shall be with this dog’s blood on my sword. Farewell.”

And in a moment he had passed the bridge and was rushing headlong on the foe. My heart sank as I saw him go thus; and, whether it vexed him or not, I shouted aloud: “Who follows Ludar? Follow! follow!” Instantly a hundred McDonnells started at the call, and leapt over the bridge. Then with my own hand I let down the gate, and bade the rest, in their chief’s name, stand and guard the walls.

Alexander’s party were already in retreat, half-a-mile away, for they had no leader; and the English, flushed with victory, and strong in numbers, were pushing them back at the sword’s point. Nor did this new company help them much, for Ludar, when he saw who followed him, angrily ordered them to stand, while he went alone to the place I had told him of, in search of his brother.

But brother there was none. I could see my friend from where I stood stalk round the place, now deserted of friend and foe, shouting and calling like a man possessed. Perhaps the murderer had taken off the body as a trophy; or perhaps—perhaps Alexander yet lived, and was safe. But sign of him there was none. For a weary hour Ludar called and searched; then, weary and sick at heart, I saw him call his men, and march off in pursuit of the enemy.

Thus all that day we stood and waited in Dunluce, and not a man spoke to his fellow. For the joy of our victory was turned into mourning. The Clan had lost one hero; and who should say whether the Banshee’s warning was not to be fulfilled on another?

The only man who kept up heart was the Englishman.

“These McDonnells,” said he, “have the lives of cats. You shall see your lordling back yet. He oweth me a bout, and is too honest a man to rob even an enemy. But, Humphrey lad,” added he, “I pray you see to these women. There is sore distress in their camp, and I durst not put in my head. Besides, I know not if they have so much as a crust of bread to eat.”

The honest fellow was right. When I went in, the maiden was in strange woe, pacing up and down her chamber with pale face and heaving breast.

“Humphrey,” said she, and her voice was dry and hoarse, “this is my fault, my fault! He will love me no more! I tempted him to stay when he should have been at his brother’s side. I, for my own comfort, made a woman of him, who should have helped make him a hero.”

“Nay,” said I, “you are wrong, maiden. Had he been there he could not have helped this. It was in nature he should—”

“Humphrey!” she exclaimed, in a voice which staggered me, “talk not like a fool. I have forfeited his love. He did well to leave me without a word! I have been worse to him than his worst enemy. I dare not see him again, for he will loathe me. You must take me hence, or, truly, I will go without leave.”

“Maiden,” said I, “have patience. This is the act of God, not of man; and Ludar when he returns may need your comfort sorely.”

She laughed bitterly.

“I know Ludar,” she said; “you know him not. Think you the sight of me will not drive him mad when he comes back, brotherless?”

“At least,” said I, “be content to wait here till to-morrow. I should be a traitor to him and myself were I to let you depart unattended; and I may not leave, here till he or the old chief comes.”

“Will Sorley Boy be here to-morrow?” asked she.

“He will; he has said so.”

“Then,” said she, “I stay on this condition. Tell him naught of me but that I am an O’Neill, a prisoner here, who demand to be restored to my father, Turlogh Luinech O’Neill. Ludar will not return yet. When he does, he shall find me gone. Go back to the wall, Humphrey. No man shall say again I stood between him and his duty.”

I returned sadly enough to my post; and all that night we kept weary watch on the walls, straining our ears for Ludar’s call or news of the battle.

But neither Ludar nor news of him came.

At daybreak, however, as the sun rose over the headlands, there came a noise of pipes and shouting, and a flutter of pennons on the hill-tops. Then we knew Sorley Boy had come.

Before him fled scattered parties of the enemy, yet far enough beyond our range; nor, when they sped away into the hills westward, did the chief allow his men to continue the chase. The McDonnells gave a wild, mighty cheer, when they saw the heather of the clan flying aloft on their ancient castle; and in the silence that followed I could see the old chief stand a moment to pass his hand across his eyes, as if to make sure he saw aright.

Then, erect, with a proud step, he advanced at the head of his men and crossed the bridge. Our men, waving their hats aloft, answered back the cheers, and, as the gate swung up to let them in, all else seemed forgotten in the triumph of this home-coming of the grand old chief.

But when, a moment after, he halted and looked round him, the shouting suddenly ceased and there fell a dead silence.

“My sons,” said he, “where are they?”

No one seemed ready to answer, so that I was fain to step forward.

“Sir,” said I, saluting, “Sir Ludar, your son, renders you your castle, which he won by his own arm two nights ago. He is not here to salute himself, as he is tending his brother who was traitorously wounded in the battle yesterday.”

The old man said nothing, but blazed on me with his eyes as though he would blast me where I stood. Had I been the murderer myself, I could not have trembled more. At length:

“Alexander, where is he?” he demanded in a hollow voice.

I said I had seen him last near the hill, but that Ludar, not finding him there, had gone to seek him, I know not whither.

Then the old man handed his great sword to his esquire, and flinging off his cloak, walked into the hall of the castle, where none durst follow him. I longed to ask his permission to follow Ludar, besides making the maiden’s petition. But his look that day was too terrible to be faced. So we stood to our guard, as we had stood all day long.

When at evening no sign came yet of Ludar, I braced myself up with a great courage, and entered the hall.

The old warrior was sitting at the head of the empty table, immovable, like a man stunned, looking straight before him. But when he saw me, he seemed to recover himself and said:

“What news?”

“None,” said I, “but as his servant, I pray you let me go and seek Sir Ludar.”

“You shall not go,” said he. And there was naught left to say after that.

“I obey you, sire,” said I. “There is, by your leave, a maiden in this castle, a prisoner, and daughter to the O’Neill. She craves your permission to return to her father; and hath bidden me ask it of you.”

He nodded his head, as if the petition were too trifling to be heeded; and, having got what I was in need of, I withdrew, thankful.

Next day, at daybreak, the maiden, white as a sheet, and with lips close-pressed to hinder their trembling, walked slowly across the bridge to the castle gate. I had got her two horses, one for her and one for the old nurse; and a trusty escort of six McDonnells and the English soldier to conduct her to Toome.

At parting she held out her hand.

“Humphrey,” said she, “tell him of this; and may she who loves you never lose you as I have lost him.”

“All is not lost,” said I, “we shall meet again, and all will be happy yet.” And I lifted her to her horse.

“Now, sirrah,” said the old nurse, as I did the like service for her, “be happy for a year and a day! You have broken a sweet heart among you, and what matters it to you, so you be rid of us? Mark my word; some heads shall ache for this! What is to become of us, do you suppose, in this O’Neill’s house? Little trouble to you to send us from one cruel fate to a worse! Be proud that you, a soldier, forsooth, and calling yourself an honest man, thus betray my poor maiden to her step-dame and your English Captain.”

“He is dead by now,” said I.

“Not he,” said she. “What is to become of us, dost thou hear? Who is to help us now?”

“Dame,” said I, “is there no God in heaven that you chide thus? Farewell, we shall meet again, I think, in a happier season.”

Then I stepped once more to the maiden and said:

“Lady, that maiden’s name we spoke of is young Mistress Walgrave, the printer’s daughter in London. Should chance bring you thither, she will be your friend for my sake. If it be possible, pray send us word presently of your welfare by this English fellow.”

Thus that maiden left Dunluce; and still the days passed and no tidings of Ludar.

But one evening, as I watched at the gate, a haggard figure crossed the bridge, scarce dragging one foot after another for weariness.

“Ludar!” said I, as I admitted him. “What news?”

“No news!” said he between his teeth, and he flung his sword with what little strength was left him to the earth. Then he himself fell beside it; and, when we carried him within, he was in a fever and raving.

Chapter Seventeen.

How a Dog’s Head was set on Dublin Gate.

Three months after, as the February snow lay deep on roof and road, Ludar and I walked in a strange procession through the streets of Dublin. In front went three trumpeters on horseback, with the pennon of England drooping from their trumpets. Behind them rode a picked troop of English horse, gaily caparisoned and very brave with ribbons and trappings. Then, alone, went Sir John Perrott, the Lord Deputy, a smirking man who seemed to doubt the whole business. He was mounted too, and at his tail rode three officers of his house, and after them more trumpeters and troopers. Then came the strange part of the procession, for at the heels of these English cavaliers stalked fifty huge redshanks with the McDonnell’s heather in their bonnets, and their hands on their sword-hilts.

Yet still stranger was what came next. For, unarmed, with long, slow strides, walked a noble figure of commanding stature, whose eyes flashed now and again on the shouting rabble, and whose white hair, escaped from his cap, waved tempestuously in the winter wind. There walked Sorley Boy, upright, sullen, disdainful; and behind him came Ludar, with tight-pressed lips and thunderous brow, his fingers twitching nervously on his belt, and his feet at every step kicking the snow impatiently from his path. I followed my master as in duty bound, and behind us stalked fifty more silent Scots.

Such was the procession which conducted Sorley Boy McDonnell at the end of his stormy career to do homage to the English Queen. How it all came to pass I know not. But once possessed of Dunluce, with his favourite son gone from his side, the old man broke down, and sighed for peace. ’Twas said the English paid a good price for his alliance, in territory for himself, and lands and title for his elder sons. Be that as it may. He sheathed his sword, and called in his fighting men all round. He heeded not Ludar’s demand for vengeance on his brother’s murderers; and, indeed, forbade any man to mention Sir Alexander’s name in his hearing. Yet day by day the empty chair stood beside his in the castle hall; and day by day, at the muster call, the young chief’s riderless horse fell into its place betwixt that of the father and the second son, Sir Randal.

As for Ludar, when after many weeks the fever left him and he rose from his bed, his father and he met rarely, and spoke less. For the old man (sad to tell), from the day that he came into his own, had changed towards his youngest son, and, blaming him for the ill that had befallen the house, ceased not to reproach and scorn him for his brother’s fate.

Never did I see Ludar so noble a man as during those gloomy months. Never once did he waver in his loyalty to his father; never once did he suffer a word to be said to rebuke the old man’s harshness; never once did he complain if more than a common soldier’s hardships, with a common soldier’s fare, fell to his lot; never once would he allow the men, who were ready to die for him, raise a shout when he came among them, or even salute him in his father’s presence. He took his punishment as beseemed a hero; and it was the hard work and stern discipline of those few months, I think, which braced him up once again into his former manhood and brought back the glow into his cheeks and the fire into his eyes.

Concerning the maiden he spake not a word; nor would he suffer me to speak of her. Only when the English fellow returned who had escorted her to her father did Ludar order him back, charging him to look to her safety as he valued his own life; which charge the faithful fellow cheerfully accepted, and departed.

Of all his trials, this journey of submission to Dublin was the bitterest to Ludar; and I, as I walked at his heels that day in Dublin city, could see that every step was a pang. The old man chose to bring Ludar and not his elder brothers for this very reason; and never a duty taxed the lad’s courage and loyalty more.