"No!" returned my father with stern composure, "to stop it with the carcase of their leader. And now, my lads, be steady-a golden guinea for every white-shirt on the lawn at sun-rise !"

So saying, the Colonel quitted the apartment, and, accompanied by the attendant, proceeded to the post of danger.

66

Leaving the soldier in the passage as a support, my father entered the pantry, unclosed the shutters, and placed himself beside the open casement. For a determined man, the post was excellently adapted. Himself concealed in darkness, all without was visible-for the moon had risen, and although the lofty tower flung its deep shadow across the lower buildings over which it domineered, there was still a narrow alley of light spanning the court-yard, on which each passing object could not fail to be revealed clearly to him who watched within. The time, the circumstances, all, to coming events" gave an imposing effect. Violence was abroad-and all within prepared for desperate resistance. Five minutes-long, long, minutes-passed. Another interval,and another followed; not a light twinkled in the castle-not a sound fell upon the ear. Suddenly, a key grated in the lock-a door opened in the court-yard; a man appeared-he stopped-listened-advanced -hesitated-retired again-and then spoke in soft whispers to some others. There was a pause. Once more the stranger issued from the doorway, crossed the moonlit vista, and stopped before the pantrywindow. He passed his arm through the aperture-drew back again, and muttered with evident satisfaction,-" All is right! the window's open!"

Four-six-eight-ten-twelve !-all issued into moonlight, and grouped themselves around the casement. The leader spoke in

smothered tones:

"Hackett! Pat!-hush! no reply. All's right; he's at the Colonel's door. Hackett!"-another pause-" "Tis safe, and Mary has succeeded. I told you I would show you in; and now for vengeance!"

Ay! and vengeance that was to be so easily obtained; for Knockloftie appeared buried in the deep repose which ever attends a false security. The leader turned, "No quarter, boys," jumped into the open casement, and added, “ Mercy to none!"

The words and action were simultaneous. Halligan had passed his head already through the aperture, when a voice, like an echo, responded in deeper tones "Mercy to none!"-A pistol exploded— and the robber chief dropped heavily from the window, a dead man!

To all, the assailants and the assailed, that fatal shot proved the signal. The expected assault was made upon the front, the more daring of the party rushing on with sledge-hammers to try and force an entrance -but not a stroke fell upon the door. From every aperture a withering cross-fire was opened. It was returned by a random volley, which splintered the windows, but inflicted no loss upon those within, who were already carefully protected. In the rear of the building, a still bloodier repulse attended the night attack :—while their leader reconnoitred, the ruffian group behind had been covered by a dozen muskets, and within a few moments after the robber's fall, half his companions formed a lifeless heap upon the pavement.

When my father rushed up stairs, the struggle in front was over. Dead and dying men were extended before the door-and in the clear moonlight those who escaped the fire from the house, were seen flying in wild disorder. As in lawless efforts generally, numbers had only produced embarrassment, and rendered failure more fatal.

One glance satisfied my father that the attempt had been fearfully repulsed; and he hastened to the sad but safe asylum, where those most dear to him had been placed for their security. My mother and the children had been already removed by the priest and servants to their respective chambers-and Colonel O'Halloran, with a dead and living woman, was left in possession of the melancholy apartment.

Mary Halligan was seated as when my father had quitted the room; her eyes were fixed upon the wood-fire-a minute passed-and not a word was uttered. My father laid his hand upon her shoulder, “Mary!” said he, "treachery! and from you!"

"And wherefore not ?" exclaimed the peasant girl, as she sprang upon her feet, and boldly returned his glance. "Why should not the deceived in turn become deceivers?"

"Wretched woman! even had I wronged you, would you wreak vengeance on those who never wished you evil?"

The girl sighed heavily.

"There was a time, Mary, when you would not have betrayed the doomed one to the destroyer, and that victim-me.”

Mary Halligan was deeply affected; she sobbed, and tears, like raindrops, fell fast upon the floor.

"And could a few brief years change that once gentle nature, and so fearfully? Would nothing satisfy revenge, but death for me— insult for my wife?"

“Death-insult!" she repeated. "Neither was intended." "Read-'tis the paper you gave me by mistake."

Mary Halligan cast her eyes upon the scroll; her lips and checks grew pale; her hand shook violently; the paper dropped upon the floor; and turning her eyes upwards, she exclaimed, "As I was unconscious that such villany was designed, so may Heaven grant me pardon!"

"What brought you here, then?"

"To save my uncle from the gallows. They told me that witnesses who must convict him and others were sheltered in this house; and that could they but be carried off and concealed until after the assizes, then the prisoners' lives were safe. They stated that they only wanted the arms deposited in Knockloftie;-that they would swear you to quit the country-and thus intimidate those who had followed your example and ventured to remain. Before I consented to carry the letter which my brother wished to have conveyed to Hackett, he swore upon the chapel-altar where the party had collected, that not one hair of your head should suffer injury. May God forgive him!"

"To that prayer, Mary, I add a sincere amen! He is gone to his account-a perjurer!"

"Gone to his account!" exclaimed the girl. "Is he dead? Who killed him?"

"He fell by the hand of one whom he would have more than murdered!"

"Then am I now indeed alone upon the world!" A long and harrowing silence followed. "Denis," she said, "I dare not curse, and cannot bless you. Four short years have passed. How bitterly have all things changed?"

"Stop, Mary! From my soul, I pity and believe you. You tell me that you did not know the purport of this night attack!"

"God knows, I did not. You wrecked my happiness; but still I would not-could not subdue feelings now best forgotten. Forgotten, said I?-never!"

Mary Halligan had spoken to my father in her native tongue; and those who are intimate with that portion of the kingdom where the Celtic language is still retained, will remember with what poetic imagery, the Irish peasantry at times detail their mingled story of grief and joy, wrong and suffering.

Mary was one of those on whom nature stamps the grace which art idly or imperfectly can simulate. Her voice had all

"The sweetness of the mountain-tongue;"

and more affecting still, all that it uttered seemed to come directly from the heart.

"I loved you, Denis-ay, loved in all the madness with which woman loves. The peasant girl never dreamed that birth and rank had divided us immeasurably. She never thought that she should be wooed and won, and cast aside for others. She knew nothing of the world. Those, for whom Heaven had designed her, sought her, and sued, and were rejected. You came. Six years had changed us— the child had become a girl-the boy had become a man. There was joy and merriment at Knockloftie-I was your chosen partner in the dance and you would leave your dogs upon the moor, to steal to the bouillee, and sit for hours beside me. Is it to be wondered at that I loved with the ardour of a first passion-and the undoubting confidence of woman? While no sound was heard above the rushing waterfall, you plucked heath and wild-flowers from the bank, placed them in my hair, and swore you would be constant. Fool that I was! I believed you,--hid them in my bosom,-and before they faded, I found myself deserted and betrayed." She paused, her agitation was fearful; but a flood of tears relieved it, and she thus continued :-" You went to another land, the sea rolled between us, and were you forgotten? Oh, no! In fancy, I saw you still upon the moor-in sleep, I sate beside you on the heather-your name was mingled in my prayersand when one was offered for my own sins, three were poured warm from the heart, to implore a blessing on the absent one. Well, well; the dream is over, the spell is broken,—and in this world you and I shall never meet again. Farewell, Colonel. There were two beings between whom this heart once was shared. I look my last upon the living one-and, too soon, I shall have looked my last upon the dead. I dare not press that hand-there's blood upon it; and-oh, God! that blood-a brother's!"

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