“There was a Presbyterian catWho loved her neighbour’s cream to sup;She sanctified her theft with prayerBefore she dared to lap it up.”
A burst of applause greeted the performance of this ribald parody. There were calls for more such psalmody. “Give us another verse, Sergeant.” “Tune up again, Dick.” “Goon, goon.” Lord Dunseveric, who had remained outside, dismounted and stalked through the door. He had caught the tune, though not the words of the sergeant’s song. He guessed at some ribald irreverence within. His face was white with anger.
“Silence,” he cried.
The sergeant, half drunk, looked at him with an insolent grin.
“Your lordship will like the second verse better—
“There was a Presbyterian wife—”
Lord Dunseveric forced his way through the soldiers who stood between him and the singer, and approached the pulpit with clenched fists and lips pressed close together.
“Who found her husband growing old;She sanctified——-”
sang the sergeant, leering at Lord Dunseveric, but before he got any further a woman’s shriek rang through the building. The sergeant stopped abruptly. The men crowded through the door, eager for some new excitement. Lord Dunseveric and Captain Twinely followed as quickly as they could. There was another shriek, a sound of blows and cursing. Then men’s voices rose above the tumult. “Down with the damned croppy.” “Throttle him.” “Knife him.” “Hold him now you’ve got him.” “Take a belt for his arms.” “Ah, here’s Tarn with the torches.” “Strike a light, one of you.” “There’s two of them, two wenches, by God, and young ones.” “Fetch them into the meeting-house and make them dance.” “Ay, by God, we’ll tie their petticoats round their necks and then make them dance.”
There was a rush of men to the door of the meeting-house. Lord Dunseveric and Captain Twinely were borne back before they could see what was going on. Some one struck a light and illuminated a branch of bogwood which he held above his head as a torch.
“Drag in the prisoner,” yelled a voice. “We’ll give him a place in the front and let him see his wenches dance.”
Lord Dunseveric, unable to make his voice heard above the tumult, saw Neal Ward, his arms bound to his sides by a belt strapped round him, dragged into the meeting-house. His face was cut and bleeding slightly. His coat was rent from collar to skirt.
“Make way, make way, for the ladies.”
A trooper entered with two women. He had an arm clasped round each. Lord Dunseveric recognised with amazement and horror his daughter and sister-in-law. Una made no resistance. She was terrified into a state of helplessness. The Comtesse struggled desperately, tearing with her hands at the trooper’s face. Captain Twinely recognised the ladies almost immediately, and strove to reach them. Before he could make his way Lord Dun-severic’s voice rang out above the tumult.
“Maurice, are you there? Come in here at once.”
There was something in his voice, a tone of authority, a note of grim determination, which cowed the rabble of men for an instant. Maurice St. Clair pushed his way through the door in silence.
“Maurice,” said Lord Dunseveric, this time in quiet, even tones, “take that scoundrel by the throat, and if he offers any resistance choke him.”
The man loosed his hold of the two women, and his hand flew to his sword hilt, but before he could draw it, Maurice bounded upon him and flung him to the ground. Once, twice, thrice, as the trooper strove to raise himself, his head was dashed down on the hard earthen floor of the meeting-house.
After the third time he lay still. Maurice rose and stood over him.
“Captain Twinely,” said Lord Dunseveric, “loose the belt from your prisoner’s arms at once.”
The order was obeyed, and Neal stood free. “Bid your men leave the meeting-house, all but the man who holds the torch and the one who lies there on the floor.”
The men, cowed and sullen, went out.
“Now,” said Lord Dunseveric, “I will have this matter cleared up and I will have justice done.” He turned to Neal.
“How came you here with my daughter and the Comtesse de Tourneville?”
Neal stood silent.
“It was my fault,” said the Comtesse. “I brought Una. I wanted to see what was going on. Mr. Neal had nothing to do with it. He tried to save us when, when that man”—she pointed to the soldier on the floor—“found us.”
“Is that so?” asked Lord Dunseveric of Neal.
“It is.”
“Maurice,” said Lord Dunseveric, “take your sister and your aunt home, and when you get them there see that they do not leave the house again. Stay. Take Neal with you. Those ruffians outside will scarcely venture to molest you, but, in case any of them are drunk enough to try, you will be the better of having Neal beside you. Captain Twinely, you will kindly give orders to your men that my son and his party are to be allowed to pass.”
Lord Dunseveric was left alone in the meeting-house save for the man who held the torch and the trooper who lay unconscious on the floor.
“Give me the light,” he said, “and go you over to your comrade. Loose his tunic and feel if his heart still beats.”
The man did as he was bidden, and reported that the trooper whom Maurice had stunned was still alive. Lord Dunseveric walked to the door of the meeting-house and said—
“Captain Twinely, you will now be so good as to take the man who lies here on the floor and hang him at once. We are not well off for trees in this country, but there is at least one at the back of the meeting-house tall enough for the purpose.”
There was a threatening growl from the men outside. They drew together. Their hands were on their swords. Captain Twinely stood a little apart from them. His eyes were fixed on the ground. He made no motion, and showed no sign of obeying the orders he was given. Lord Dunseveric looked first at him and then at the group of angry troopers. He stepped out of the meeting-house and faced them. He took out his watch and looked at it.
“I give you ten minutes,” he said, “in which to obey my order. If that man is not hanged in ten minutes I shall march you back to Dunseveric House, where there are trees enough, and hang every one of you there.”
They could have killed him easily as he stood there. They probably would have killed him if he had shown the smallest sign of fear. They knew perfectly well that he could not have marched them to Dunseveric House or anywhere else if they had chosen to resist. Nevertheless, they obeyed him. A rope was fetched from the saddle of one of the troopers. In those days the yeomen carried ropes fit for hanging men as they went through the country. The unconscious man was carried from the meeting-house and hung up on the only tree large enough to bear his weight. Lord Dunseveric, with his watch in his hand, saw the thing done with a quiet smile. Then he spoke again to Captain Twinely.
“You had better proceed with your search for the cannon. It is getting late, and you have already wasted a great deal of time.”
More torches were lit. The men, now thoroughly cowed, dragged down the pulpit and the precentor’s pew. The earth under them was not beaten hard as was the earth of the rest of the floor. Captain Twinely took a torch and peered at it.
“Fetch a spade,” he said.
They shovelled the earth into a heap against the wall and uncovered four cannons. They were wrapped in oily rags, and well preserved, in spite of their damp hiding-place. Lord Dunseveric looked at them carefully.
“Ah,” he said. “Four of the six-pounders which I bought for my company of volunteer artillery in 1778. I often wondered what had become of them. Now, Captain Twinely, you have got the cannon, you had better go on to arrest your prisoners. I shall go with you, and remember I shall permit no violence unless resistance is offered. I have given your men one lesson to-night already. I am quite prepared to give them another if necessary.”
The rain had ceased when Maurice and Neal, with their charge, left the meeting-house. The direction of the wind had changed since sunset. It blew in from the north and was sweeping the clouds away. The moon, then in its first quarter, seemed to be racing across the sky among the torn fragments of black cloud. Now and then it reached an open space and shed a pale, white light over the landscape. Again, it was hidden and the night was very dark. Already the wind had aroused the sea to its old warfare against the rocks and strands. Its hollow roaring was borne far inland. For a time the little party walked in silence. The Comtesse was the first to speak.
“If that is the way your loyal troops behave, Maurice, I think that I prefer thesans culottes. Ugh! my clothes are half torn off my back. I shall never be able to wear this dress again. It will smell, positively smell, of the grimy hands of that drunken wretch.”
“What brought you out?” asked Maurice. “If you had stayed at home nothing would have happened to you.”
“Now,” said the Comtesse, “if you begin to lecture me, to preach sermons to me, I shall sit down and cry. I could scream and kick at this moment with the greatest ease and pleasure. Then what would you do, my nephew?”
“Maurice,” said Una, “let us go home across the fields. Don’t let us go by the road. I’m afraid of meeting those men again. They will be coming after us.”
“Nonsense, Una,” said the Comtesse, “we have climbed walls enough to-night; we have lain in ditches enough. For my part, if there is a road I shall go along it. Come, Maurice.”
She walked quickly on, and Maurice, puzzled and uncomfortable, followed her. Then Neal laid his hand on Una’s arm.
“This way,” he said. “I will take you home by the fields.”
He sprang across the ditch and stretched out his hand to the girl. Without a word she took it and followed him. They walked in silence over the rough ground. They crossed a wall, and then another, and each time Neal thrilled at the touch of her hand as he turned to help her.
“You were very brave, Neal,” she said.
“It’s not much to be brave for you, Una. Oh, I wish I could have saved you.”
He had her hand in his again, and this time it seemed as if it lingered in his clasp.
“Una,” he said. “Una.”
But her face was turned away from him, and she made no answer. The tone of his voice set her pulses beating with a strong excitement, so that she could not look at him or speak. He was silent again. They reached the high wall which bounded the demesne of Dunseveric House. Once more, as they climbed, her hand was in his.
This time he held it fast. It seemed to him that he was doing something that would call down on him swift rebuke and angry reproach. He expected to have the hand snatched from him. Then, with wonder and a glow of rapturous delight, he felt it lie passive in his. He realised that he was being swept beyond his self-control; that his desire for the girl beside him was stronger than his reason. He yielded to an impulse of sheer passion, clasped Una in his arms, and kissed her face. Again and again he kissed her. He felt her arms tighten round him, knew that she was clinging to him. Then suddenly he let her go and stood back from her, terror-stricken.
“Oh, Una, what have I done? I am mad.”
She stood before him, her face covered with her hands.
“Una, speak to me. Can you ever forgive me? My love made me mad.”
She raised her face and looked at him. In the dim moonlight he saw in her eyes a look of wonderful tenderness. He realised without a word from her that she loved him, too.
“Una—I ought never—I was wrong. But I love you more than my life. Una, you are too far above me. You are a great man’s daughter. How did I dare?”
She came close to him and spoke.
“There is no above or below, Neal, when we love each other. How can I be far above the man who loves me?”
“But there is no hope for us, none at all anywhere. Even to-morrow I may have to go—Una, I may have to fight——”
“Whatever comes, Neal, I know that you will be brave and good. Be brave and good, dear Neal, and then God will give us our hearts’ desire. I am not afraid of the future. Why should you be afraid? If you do what is right and honourable what is there to fear? God is good.”
They walked together to the house. Then Neal turned and went home. The future, so far as he could see into it, was dark enough. His love seemed utterly hopeless, yet his heart was full of unspeakable joy. He knew, beyond all possibility of doubt, that Una loved him and would love him whatever happened. Her strangely simple faith seemed to make all things plain before him. Una loved him and God was good. It was enough.
When Neal arrived at the Manse he found that the sentries who had stood on guard at the door were gone. The yeomen had disappeared from before the meeting-house. The broken door, the fragments of the wrecked pulpit, and the figure of the dead trooper swinging from the branch on which he had been hanged were left as witnesses of the Government’s methods of keeping the peace in Ireland.
Inside the house Micah Ward paced restlessly up and down the floor of his study. Donald, his pipe in his mouth, sat on a chair tilted back till its front legs were six inches off the floor, and watched his brother. His attitude was precarious, but he seemed comfortable. Micah paused in his rapid walking as Neal entered the room.
“What have you been doing, Neal?” he said. “Your face is cut, your clothes are torn; you look strangely excited.”
“I have been fighting,” said Neal. He did not think it necessary to add that he had also been love-making, though it was the interview with Una, far more than the struggle with the yeoman, which was accountable for the gleaming eyes and exalted expression which his father noticed.
“I trust you were victorious,” said his father, “that your foot has been dipped in the blood of your enemies, that you have broken their bonds asunder, and cast away their cords from you.”
“I was beaten,” said Neal, smiling. It did not just then seem to matter in the least whether he got the better or the worse in any fight.
“You take it easily,” said Donald. “That’s right. You’re blooded now, my boy. You’ll fight all the better in the future for tasting your own blood to-night. I’m glad you are back with us. Your father has been giving out the most terrific curses against Lord Dunseveric for having brought the yeomen down on us and taken away his little cannons. I tell him he ought to be thankful they went into the meeting-house instead of coming here. They’d have made a fine haul if they’d walked in and taken the papers he and I had before us when you came here. They’d have had the name of every United Irishman in the district, and could have picked them out and hanged them one by one just as they wanted them.”
“They’ve got as much information, pretty near, as they want,” said Neal. “They are going to arrest three men to-night.”
“God’s curse on Eustace St. Clair, him whom men call the Lord of Dunseveric,” said Micah Ward.
“Spare your curse,” said Neal. “It wasn’t Lord Dunseveric who brought the yeomen on us, and what’s more, only for Lord Dunseveric you’d be arrested yourself along with the others.”
“What’s that you are saying, Neal?”
“I’m saying that the yeomen brought orders from Belfast to arrest you, and me, too, and that Lord Dunseveric refused to execute them.”
“And so I owe my liberty to him! I must thank him for sparing me. I must fawn on him as my benefactor, I suppose. But I will not. I refuse his mercy. I scorn it. I cast it from me. I shall go out and offer myself to the yeomen. They are to take my friends, my people, and spare me. I will not be spared. Am I the hireling who fleeth when the wolf cometh? I go to deliver myself into their hands.”
“You’ll be a bigger fool than I take you for if you do,” said Donald. “Listen to me now. From what Neal has told us it’s evident that you’re wrong about Lord Dunseveric. It wasn’t he who brought the yeomen on us. There is someone else giving information, and it’s someone who knows a good deal. Come now, brother Micah, cudgel your brains; think, man, think, who is it?”
Micah sat down at his writing-table and passed his hand over his forehead.
“I cannot think,” he said. “I cannot, I will not believe that any of our people are traitors.”
“These orders which Neal speaks of came from Belfast,” said Donald. “Who has lately left this place and gone to Belfast?”
“I can tell you,” said Neal. “James Finlay. And James Finlay had a grudge against me. The others whom he denounced were United Irishmen, perhaps, I was not. Why was I marked down, unless it was out of private revenge? And there is nobody, nobody in the world, I believe, who has cause to wish for vengeance on me but only James Finlay.”
“I cannot believe it of him,” said Micah. “He came to me himself and asked to be sworn. He was a member of the committee.”
“If you ask me,” said Donald, “I think the case looks pretty black against James Finlay. I think, if things are to go on as they ought to, it will be better to cut the throat of James Finlay. I don’t know him myself. Perhaps you do, Neal.”
“Yes,” said Neal, “I know him.”
“And he is in Belfast,” said Donald. “Now, what was his reason for going to Belfast?”
“He went to obtain employment there,” said Micah. “He took letters from me to some of our leaders. He went as my agent, properly accredited. My God! If he is a traitor!”
“I think, Neal,” said Donald, slowly, “that you and I will take a little trip to Belfast. I should like to see Belfast. They tell me it’s a rising town. I should also very much like to see our friend, James Finlay. I suppose we shall be able to get horses to-morrow. Oh, yes, I’ve money to pay for them. I didn’t come over here with an empty purse. Anyway, I think Belfast would suit me better than this place. Your people, Micah, don’t seem very fond of fighting.”
“You are wrong, brother. They will lay down their lives right willingly when the hour comes.”
Donald shrugged his shoulders. “Their meeting-house has been sacked, their minister has been insulted, three of their members are to be arrested, and they haven’t offered to strike a blow. If they had the courage of doe rabbits they’d have chopped up those yeomen into little bits and then scattered them for dung over the fields. I reckon that unless the Belfast people are better than these men of yours I’d be better back in the States. We knew how to fight for our liberty there.”
“You don’t understand, Donald. Believe me, you do not understand. We must wait for orders before we strike.”
“Oh, orders. Waiting for orders. I know the meaning of that. It means waiting till the English have picked off your leaders one by one. I know, I know.”
Donald knocked the ashes out of his pipe, filled it, and lit it again, and puffed slowly. Micah sat at the table, his head resting in his hands. Neal sat down and waited. There was silence in the room for a long time. Donald’s pipe was smoked out and lit again before he spoke. Then he said—
“I’m sorry, brother, that I spoke as I did. I don’t doubt but that your men are brave enough. They would have fought if they had known what was going on.”
“No, no,” said Micah. “You were right. I ought to have fought if there were no one else. I ought to have died. I would to God that I had died before our meeting-house was pillaged, before my people, the men who trusted me, were taken captive. I was a coward. I am a coward.”
“Then I am a coward, too,” said Donald, “and no man ever called me that before. But I’m not, and you’re not. We were two unarmed men against fifty. I’m fond enough of fighting, and I take on a job with long odds against me, but not such long odds as that. Rouse yourself, brother. Neal and I are going to Belfast. We shall want letters from you. We must be accredited like Mr. James Finlay, whom we hope to meet. Stir yourself now and write for us.”
“I will, I will. Neal, there is no ink here. I remember that I used all my ink yesterday. Neal, fetch me ink from the shelf beside the window.”
In a few minutes Micah’s pen was travelling slowly over the paper. Neal could hear its spluttering and scratching. Suddenly, there was a noise of loud knocking at the door of the house. Donald started and laid down his pipe. Neal rose to his feet, and stood waiting for some order from his father. Micah stopped writing, and turned in his chair. All trace of nervousness and agitation had vanished from his face. His expression was gentle and joyous. He smiled.
“They have come to take me also,” he said. “I am right glad. I shall not be indebted to the oppressor for my liberty. I shall be where a shepherd ought to be—with the sheep whom the wolf attacks.”
Again came the noise of knocking, heavy, authoritative, threatening.
“Be quick, my son, and open the door. Bid those who enter welcome.”
Neal went to the door, and opened it. Lord Dunseveric stood outside, the reins of his horse’s bridle thrown over his arm, his riding whip in his hand.
“I suppose your father is within, Neal. I want to speak to him. Will you ask him if I may enter?”
“He bid me say that you were welcome,” said Neal.
Lord Dunseveric stared at him in surprise. “How did he know who was at the door? But it does not matter. Show me where to tie my horse, Neal, and I will enter.”
Neal led the way into the room where his father and his uncle sat. Lord Dunseveric bowed to Micah Ward, and then, with a glance at Donald, said—
“The matter on which I wish to speak to you, sir, is somewhat private. Is it your wish that this gentleman be present?”
“It is my brother, Donald Ward,” said Micah. “He knows my mind. I have no secrets from him.”
Lord Dunseveric bowed again, and said, with a slight smile—
“It is possible that Mr. Donald Ward may find some of your secrets rather embarrassing to keep.”
“I can take care of myself, master,” said Donald, “or, maybe, I ought to say, my lord. But your lordships and dukeships, and countships and kingships stick somewhat in my throat. I come from America, where we hold one man the equal of another.”
“You are a young nation,” said Lord Dunseveric. “In time you will perhaps learn courtesy. But I did not come here to-night to teach manners to vagrant Yankees. I came to tell Mr. Ward that he has been denounced to the Government as a seditious person, and that I received orders to-night to arrest him.”
“And why did you not execute them?” said Micah Ward. “Did I ask you to spare me? Have you come here to be thanked for your mercy? I wish to God you had arrested me.”
“I assure you,” said Lord Dunseveric, “that I expect no thanks, nor do I claim any credit for being merciful. You owe your escape solely to the fact that I happen to be a gentleman. It did not consist with my honour to arrest a man who was my personal enemy.”
“Then,” said Micah Ward, “what have you come here for now?”
“I have come, Mr. Ward, to warn you, if you will accept my warning, that you are in great danger, that the ramifications of your conspiracy are known to the Government, that your society is honeycombed with treachery, that your roll of membership contains the names of many spies.”
“Is that all?” said Micah.
“No, sir, that is not all. I have a regard for your son. He has been the companion of my children. He has grown up at my feet. He has eaten at my table. I like him and I respect him. I beg of you to consider what the consequences will be for him if you drag him into this insane conspiracy. His name was along with yours on the list of seditious persons placed in my hands to-night. He has an hour or two ago incurred the anger—the dangerous anger—of a body of yeomen and their commander. I beg that you will consider his safety, and not take him with you on the way on which you are going.”
“Neal,” said Micah Ward, “is no more than a boy. He knows nothing about politics. What has my action to do with Neal?”
“His name,” said Lord Dunseveric, “stood next to yours on the list of suspected persons which was put into my hands to-night.”
“So be it,” said Micah, solemnly! “if my son is to suffer, if he is to die, he can die no better than fighting for liberty against oppression.”
“And I’m thinking,” said Donald, “that you are going a bit too fast with your talk about dying. I’ve fought just such a fight as my brother is thinking of. I’m through with it now, and I’m not dead. By God, we saw to it that it was the other men who died. We won, sir. Mark my words, we won. It was the people that carried the day in America. They carried the day in France. What’s to hinder us from carrying the day in Ireland, too?”
Lord Dunseveric looked at Donald during this speech and kept his eyes fixed upon him for some minutes afterwards. He was considering whether it was worth while replying to this boastful American Irishman. At last he turned again to Micah Ward.
“I have still one more appeal to make to you, Mr. Ward. You care for Ireland. Is it not so? I believe you do. Believe, me, I care for Ireland, too.”
“Yes,” said Micah, “you care for Ireland, but what do you mean by Ireland? You mean a bloodthirsty, supercilious, unprincipled ascendancy, for whom the public exists only as a prey to be destroyed, who keep themselves close and mark men’s steps that they may lay in wait for them; who forge chains for their country, who distrust and belie the people, who scoff at the complaints of the poor and needy, and who impudently call themselves Ireland. You have made the sick and the lame to go out of their way. You have eaten the good pastures and trodden down the residue with your feet. You care for Ireland, and you mean by Ireland the powers and privileges of a class. I care for Ireland, but I mean Ireland, not for certain noblemen and gentlemen, but Ireland for the Irish people, for the poor as well as the rich, for the Protestant, Dissenter, and Roman Catholic alike.”
“I have never denied, nor do I wish to deny, the need of reform,” said Lord Dunseveric, “but I see before all the necessity of loyalty to the constitution.”
“Ay, to the constitution which gives the whole power of the country to a few proud aristocrats, which excludes three-fourths of the people from its benefits, which allows eight hundred thousand Northerns to be insulted and trampled on because they speak of emancipation, which uses forced oaths, overflowing Bastilles and foreign troops for extorting the loyalty of the Irish people.”
“I will not argue these things with you now,” said Lord Dunseveric, “my time is short. I would rather pray you to consider what the end of your conspiracy must be. If you succeed, and I do not believe you can succeed, you will deluge the country in blood. If your best hopes are realised, and you receive the help you hope for from abroad, you will make Ireland the cockpit of a European war. Our commerce and manufactures, reviving under the fostering care of our own Irish Parliament, will be destroyed. Our fields, which none will dare to till, will be fouled with the dead bodies of our sons and daughters. But why should I complete the picture? If you fail—and you must fail—you will fling the country into the arms of England. Our gentry will be terrified, our commons will be cowed. Designing Englishmen will make an easy prey of us. They will take from us even the hard-earned measure of independence we already possess. We shall become, and we shall remain, a contemptible province of their Empire instead of a sovereign and independent nation. The English are wise enough to see this, though you cannot see it. Man,they want you to rebel.”
“Is that all you have to say?” said Micah.
“That is all.”
“Then I bid you farewell, Eustace St. Clair, Lord of Dunseveric. You have spoken well and pleaded speciously for yourself and your class. I might listen to you if I had not seen your armed ruffians break into our meeting-houses; if I had not in memory stories of burnt homesteads, outraged women, tortured men; you might persuade me if I did not know that to-night you have taken my friends, that you will drag them before unjust judges, and condemn them on the evidence of perjured informers, as you condemned William Orr. Human endurance can bear no more. Patience is a virtue of the Gospel, but it becomes cowardice in the face of certain wrongs. Go, I have done with you. Go, torture, burn, shed innocent blood, and then, like the adulterous woman, eat and wipe your mouth, and say ‘I have done no wickedness.’”
“I came into your house on a mission of friendliness and mercy,” said Lord Dunseveric. “I have been met with insults and lies, lies known to be lies to you who speak them. I go, and I pray that we shall meet no more until the day when, in the light of God’s judgment, you will be able to see what is in my heart and understand what is in your own.”
“Amen,” said Micah Ward, “I bide the test.”
Lord Dunseveric bowed and walked to the door of the room. Then he paused, turned, and held out his hand to Neal.
“You will stay with your father, Neal,” he said. “I do not deny that you are right, but I will not part from you in unfriendliness. God keep you, boy, and remember, for old time’s sake, for the sake of the days when you stood by my knee with my own children, you have always—whatever happens—always a friend in me.”
Neal’s eyes filled with tears. He could not speak. He carried Lord Dunseveric’s hand to his lips, and then let it go reluctantly. He heard the door shut, the trampling of the horse’s hoofs on the gravel outside. Then, with a sudden sob, which he could not repress, went across the room and sat down beside his father.
Donald alone remained cheerful and unimpressed.
“I know that kind of man,” he said. “A fine kind it is. We had some of the same sort in America. They crossed the border afterwards to Canada. I suppose you mean to ship your aristocracy to England, Micah? From all I hear they like lords over there. But now to work. We can’t afford to sit still while Master James Finlay is loose about the country with your letters in his pocket. We must get on his trail, Neal, you and I. We must hinder him from doing more mischief. The first thing we want is horses. Micah, where are we to get horses—two strong nags, fit for the road?”
Micah Ward sat silent and absorbed. His eyes were fixed on the wall in front of him. His lips moved, as if he were speaking, but no sound passed them. His hands on the table in front of him twitched. He was a prey to some violent emotion. Donald called him again, and again failed to arouse his attention. Then he turned to Neal.
“There’s no use in trying to rouse your father, Neal. He will not hear us. Do you know anyone who will sell or hire us horses?”
“Rab MacClure has horses,” said Neal. “He has two, I know. He lives not far from this, about a mile along the road towards Ballintoy.”
“Come, then,” said Donald, “I suppose the family will be all abed by this time. We must rouse them. There’s Scripture warrant for it. ‘Friend, lend me three loaves.’ We must imitate the man in the Gospel. If he won’t give us the horses for the asking we must weary him with importunity.”
It was ten o’clock when Donald and his nephew set out. The clouds were blown away, and the sky clear. The moon rode high, and by its light they caught glimpses from the road of the white foam of the sea breaking on the dark strand below them. The roar of the waves came loud to them as they walked. A quarter of an hour’s quick walking brought them to their destination.
“There’s the house,” said Neal.
“They are not in bed,” said Donald, “I can see lights in the windows.”
Neal led the way across a stile and over a field. Lights moved from one window to another in the house. A sound of wailing rose! and fell, mingling with the monotonous roar of the waves. The door stood wide open. Within, a woman rocked herself to and fro on a low stool. Three children clung to her petticoats and cried piteously. A farm labourer stood, stupidly motionless, beside the dresser. A maid servant, with a light in her hand, flitted restlessly in and out of the kitchen. Her hair hung loose about her shoulders. She was but half dressed, like one aroused suddenly from bed. A rush-light burned in an iron stand on the floor, shedding a feeble light. Donald and Neal stood at the door astonished.
“Our friends the yeomen have been here,” said Donald. “I guess they have taken the man of the house away with them. We’ve another account to settle with James Finlay when we get him.”
“Mistress MacClure,” said Neal, “I’ve come to know if you will hire or sell us two horses. We must be travelling to-morrow morn.”
“Horses,” cried the woman. “Who speaks o’ horses? I wouldna care if ye were to rive horse and beast and a’ from me now. My man’s gone. Oh, my weans, my weans, who’ll care for you now when they’ve kilt your da? Oh, the bonny man, and the kind!”
“Is it you, Master Neal?” said the farm servant. “Will you no fetch the minister till her?”
“I will, I will,” said Neal, conscience-stricken at having mentioned his own need in a home so sorely stricken with grief. He ran from the house back to the manse.
Donald took the labourer outside the door and spoke to him. He explained that he was the minister’s brother. He said that he had pressing need of the horses. He offered money. The man shook his head.
“They are no mine, and the mistress is in no way to bargain with you the night.”
“I want the horses,” said Donald, “to ride after the villain who betrayed your master.”
The man’s face brightened suddenly.
“Aye, and is that so? Why couldn’t ye have tell’t me that afore? Keep your money in your pouch. You’ll have the horses in the morn. I’ll take it on myself to give them to you. I’d like fine to be going along. But there’s the mistress and the weans. I darena leave them, and I willna. There’s na yin only me and the God that’s above us all for her to look to now.”
Micah Ward, followed by his son, hastened to the MacClure’s house. He stood for a moment on the threshold, lifted his hat solemnly from his head, and invoked a blessing on the building and all in it. Then he went to the woman, took one of her hands in his, and spoke to her with wonderful tenderness.
“Bessie, my poor bairn. Hearken to me, Bessie. Quit crying now, quit crying. Do you mind, Bessie, the day I was in with you and Rab away at Ballymoney? Do you mind how you said to me that every day you thanked God for the good husband he had given you? Do you mind that? Ah, woman, you mind it well. And you know rightly what the blessed book says to you—’ The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.’ Are you to receive good at the Lord’s hand, my bairn, and not evil, too?”
He laid his hand upon her head and prayed aloud. The terrified maid stood still, her light in her hand, her hair in tangled strings, half covering her face. The labourer, Donald, and Neal stood together near the door. The children buried their heads in their mother’s lap. Micah Ward poured out his very soul in supplication. Very literally it might be said that he wrestled with his God in prayer. It was in some such terms that he himself would have described the spiritual effort which he made. More than once, after a pause in his outpouring he repeated, in tones which were almost fierce in their determination, the words of Jacob to the angel—“I will not let you go until you bless me.” For a long time he continued to pray, interrupted by no sound except an occasional bitter cry from Bessie MacClune. One after another the feeble lights flickered, guttered and went out. The room was in darkness. Through the open door came the long roaring of the sea. Within, Micah Ward’s voice rose to passionate cries or sank to a tender whisper. Bessie MacClure’s grief found utterance now only in half-choked sobs. At last even these ceased. Her hands ceased wandering over the curly heads of the children, asleep now with her lap for their pillow. She felt upwards along Micah Ward’s coat. Her fingers crept along his sleeve, found his hand, pulled it down to her, and laid her cheek against it. He ceased to pray. The victory was won. He had, by sheer violence, dragged peace for a stricken soul from the closely-guarded treasury of the Lord of Sabaoth.
Early next morning Donald Ward and Neal set forth on their journey. Rab MacClure’s horses served them well. By breakfast time they reached Ballymoney. They sat in the inn kitchen while the woman of the house broiled salmon for them. She was full of excitement, and very ready to talk. The yeomen had ridden through the town the day before. They had stopped at her house to drink. The officer and some of the men had paid their score and ridden on. Ten of them remained behind, and demanded more drink. Tumblers were brought to them as they sat in their saddles. One of them had proposed a toast—“To hell with all Papists and Presbyterians.”
“And that was no civil talk to use to me, when all the town knows that my man is an elder in the kirk.”
But there was more to follow. The troopers had flung down the tumblers—“the bonny cut glasses that were fetched from Wexford”—and shattered them on the pavement of the courtyard. Then they rode off without paying a penny, and when the mistress cried after them one man came back with his sword drawn in his hand, and she was fain to flee and hide herself. But the story of her own wrongs did not quench the good dame’s curiosity. She recognised Neal as the son of the minister in Dunseveric. It was towards Dunseveric that the yeomen had ridden. What did they do there? Had there been hanging work or burning—the like of what went on in other parts? Had they visited the minister’s house? Did Neal see them?
Donald Ward was a talkative man, and somewhat given to boasting; but, apart from the fact that the business of the night before gave him little excuse for glorying, he had plenty of sound sense—too much sense to gossip with the mistresses of inns about serious business. He signed to Neal to keep silent, and himself parried the shower of questions so adroitly that his hostess got no information from him. She tired at last, and with a show of disappointed temper, put the salmon on the table.
“There’s your fish for you,” she said, “and fadge and oaten farles, and if you want more you’d better show some civility to the woman that does for you.”
She left the room, and stood, her hands on her hips, staring into the street.
“We’re well rid of her tongue,” said Donald.
Before the travellers’ appetites were half satisfied she was with them again. She ran into the kitchen with every sign of terror in her face.
“They’re coming,” she said. “I seen them coming round MacCance’s corner, and they have men with them and led horses. I seen them plain, and one of them is Rab MacClure, of Ballintoy. Away with you, Neal Ward, away with you. I’m thinking that them that has Rab MacClure and his feet tied under the horse’s belly will be no friends of your father’s or yours.”
Donald Ward rose to his feet and stretched himself.
“The woman’s right, Neal.” He showed no signs of hurry in his speech. “I’m thinking it will be safer for us to be out of this. Here, mistress, what’s the reckoning?”
“Not a penny, not a penny, will I take. Are them murdering devils to drink without paying and me taking money from the son of Micah Ward or any friend of his? But for God’s sake get you gone. I’ll keep them dandering about the door for a while, and do you get your horses and out by the back way into the field. You can strike the road again lower down.”
It was late in the evening when Donald and Neal, with weary horses and wearier limbs, came close to Antrim. Neal was unused to riding long distances, and Donald complained that a voyage across the Atlantic left a man unfit for land travelling. They accosted a stranger on the road and asked his guidance to the best inn. The man answered them in a civil way. He spoke with a northern accent, but his voice was singularly sweet and gentle, and his words were those of a cultured man.
“I am on my way to the Massereene Arms,” he said. “I think you will find the accommodation good both for yourselves and your horses.”
He walked with them, chatting about the weather and the condition of the roads. He said that he himself had that day walked from Ballymena, and intended to spend the night in Antrim. He asked no questions and seemed in no way concerned with the affairs of his chance acquaintances.
Donald and Neal took their horses to the inn yard and saw them rubbed down, stabled, and fed. Then they entered the public room of the inn, sat down, and ordered their supper. The man who had guided them to the door sat at a corner of the table eating a frugal meal of bread and cheese. Beside his tumbler stood a large jug of buttermilk. In a few minutes he rose from the table and took his seat on a bench near the fire, where the light from a lamp, which hung on the wall, fell on him. He drew a notebook from his pocket, and proceeded to write in it, referring from time to time to scraps of paper, of which he seemed to have a large number. He was a man of middle height, of a spare frame, which showed no sign of great personal strength, but was well knit, and might easily have been capable of great endurance. His face was thin and narrow. He had very dark hair, and dark, gentle eyes. There was a suggestion about the mouth of the kind of strength which often goes with gentleness.
To Neal the appearance of the man was not very interesting. He watched him in mere idleness while waiting for the girl to bring the supper Donald had ordered. If there had been anyone else in the room Neal would not have wasted a second glance on the unobtrusive stranger. Yet, as he watched the man he became aware of something about him which was attractive. There was a dignity in his movements quite different from Donald Ward’s habitual self-assertion, different, too, from the stately confidence of Lord Dunseveric. There was a quiet seriousness in the way he set to work at his writing, and a methodical carefulness in his sorting of the scraps of paper which he drew one by one from his pocket. The maid entered with the wine and food which Donald had ordered.
“You’ll be for beds, the night,” she said.
“Ay,” said Donald, “and do you see that the feathers are well shaken and the beds soft. If you’d ridden all the miles I’ve ridden to-day, my girl, after not being on the back of a horse for three months, you’d want a soft bed to lie on.”
The stranger looked up from his notebook. There was laughter in his dark eyes, but it went no further than his eyes. His lips showed no inclination to smile.
Another man entered the room—a burly, strong man. He wore top boots, as if he had been riding. He looked like a well-to-do farmer. He gave no order to the girl, but walked straight to where the dark-eyed stranger sat. Greetings passed between them, and then talk in a low voice. Both of them looked at Donald and Neal. Then, beckoning to the girl, the stranger asked if he could be accommodated with a private room. The girl nodded, and went to prepare one. Donald Ward finished his supper, rose, stretched himself, yawned, and then drawing a stool near the fire, sat down and filled his pipe. Neal, interested to watch the evening street traffic in a strange town, climbed on to the deep sill of the window and pushed the lattice open. A blind piper sat on a stone bench outside the inn and played a reel for some boys and girls who danced on the road. A horseman—a handsomely-dressed man and well mounted—rode slowly up the street towards Lord Massereene’s demesne. One of the dancers crossed his way and caused the horse to shy. The rider cut at the girl with his whip. An angry growl followed the retreating figure. The piper stopped playing for a minute and listened. His face wore that eager look of strained attention which is seen often on the faces of the blind. He began to play again, and this time his tune was the “Ça Ira.” It was well-known to his audience and its significance was understood. Several voices began to hum it in unison with the pipes. More voices joined, and in a minute or two the little crowd was shouting the tune. A grave, elderly man, in the dark dress and white bands of a clergyman, stepped out of a house opposite the inn and approached the piper. The dancers and the onlookers stopped singing and saluted him respectfully. He spoke to the piper.
“Don’t be playing that tune, Phelim. Play your reel again. There’s trouble where those French tunes are played. It was so in Belfast a while ago. We want no riot in Antrim nor dragoons in our streets.”
“I’m thinking,” said the blind man, “that it’s the voice of Mr. Macartney, the Rector of Antrim, that I’m listening to. Well, reverend sir, I’ll stop my tune at your bidding. Not because you’re a magistrate, nor yet because you’re a great man, but just for the sake of the letter you wrote to save William Orr from being hanged.”
The pipes gave a long wail and were silent. Then another man came up the street. Neal could not see his face, for his hat was slouched over it, but the sound of his voice reached the open window.
“What’s this, boys? What’s this? Which of you is it bids the piper stop his tune? It’s only cowards and Orangemen that don’t like that tune.”
The voice struck Neal as one that he had heard before, but he could not recollect where he had heard it. He leaned out of the window to hear better.
The clergyman stepped out into the road and confronted the newcomer.
“It was I who bid the piper stop that tune. What have you to say to me?”
The other approached him swaggering, then hesitated, stood still, took off his hat, and held it in his hand.
“Oh, nothing to you, nothing at all, Mr. Macartney. I did not know you were here. Indeed, you were quite right to stop the man. As for what I said, I beg you to forget it. It was nothing but a joke, a little joke of mine.”
He bowed and cringed. He spoke in a deprecating whine, very different from the blustering tone he had used before. Neal’s interest in the scene before him became suddenly very acute. He was almost certain now that he recognised the voice. The whining tone brought back to him the night when he had interfered with James Finlay’s salmon poaching. The voice was, he felt sure of it, Finlay’s voice. He drew back quickly, and from within the window watched Finlay pass through the inn door. He heard his steps in the passage, heard him open the door of the room in which the travellers were gathered. Neal shrank back into the shadow of the window seat and watched.
Finlay swaggered across the floor and then paused and looked at Donald Ward, who smoked his pipe in the chimney corner. Then he turned to the other two.
“I don’t know this gentleman,” he said. “Is he——?”
He paused, his eyebrows elevated, his face expressing significant interrogation. Neal saw him plainly in the lamp light. He had not been mistaken in the voice. It was James Finlay. The man who had guided them to the inn rose without speaking and led the way to the private room which the maid had prepared for his reception. Neal jumped down from his seat and approached his uncle.
“Uncle Donald,” he said, “that was James Finlay, the man we are looking for.”
Donald took his pipe out of his mouth and looked hard at Neal.
“Are you quite sure?” he said. “It won’t do to be making a mistake in a job of this sort.”
“I’m quite sure.”
Donald replaced his pipe in his mouth and puffed hard at it for some minutes. Then he said—
“You don’t know either of the other two, I suppose? No. Well it can’t be helped. It would have been convenient if we had known. They may be honest men or they may be another pair of spies. I think I’ll try and find out something about them. Do you stay here, Neal, and watch. Let me know if any of the three of them leave the house. I’ll go down the passage to the tap-room. I’ll drink a glass or two, and I’ll see what information I can pick up. You see, my boy, if the other two are honest men we ought to warn them of our suspicions about Finlay. If they are spies we ought to know their names and warn somebody else. Any way, keep your eye on Finlay, and let me know if he stirs.”
A sensation of horror crept over Neal when his uncle left him. He realised that he was hunting a fellow-creature, that the hunt might end at any moment in the taking of human life. In Dunseveric Manse, while the anger which the yeomen’s blows and bonds had raised in him was awake, while the enormity of Finlay’s treachery was still fresh in his mind, it seemed natural and right that the spy should be killed. Now, when he had seen the man swagger down the street, when he had just watched him cringe and apologize, when he had sat within a few feet of him, it seemed a ghastly and horrible thing to track and pursue him for his life. A cold sweat bathed his limbs. His hands trembled. He sat on the stool near the fire shivering with cold and fear. He listened intently. It was growing late, and the piper had stopped playing in the street. The boys and girls who danced had gone home. There were voices of passers by, but these grew rarer. Now and then there was the trampling of a horse’s hoofs on the road as some belated traveller from Belfast pushed fast for home. A murmur of voices came to him from the interior of the inn, he supposed from the tap-room to which his uncle had gone, but he could hear nothing of what was said. Once the girl who had served his supper came in and told him that his bed was ready if he cared to go to it. Neal shook his head. Gradually he became drowsy. His eyes closed. He nodded. Then the very act of nodding awoke him with a start. He blamed himself for having gone near to sleeping at his post, for being neglectful of the very first duty imposed on him. The horror of the watch he was keeping returned on him. He felt that he was like a murderer lurking in the dark for some unsuspecting victim. For Finlay had no thought that he was distrusted, discovered, tracked. Then, to steel himself against pity, he let his mind go back over the events of the previous night. He thought of the scene in the MacClures’ cottage, of the heart-broken woman, of her husband riding with the brutal troopers to a trial without justice and a death without pity. He felt with his hand the blood caked on his own cheek, the scab on the cut where the yeoman had struck him. He remembered Una’s shriek and the Comtesse’s frantic struggles as the soldiers dragged them from their hiding-place. Of his own rush to their rescue he remembered little save the momentary delight of feeling his fists get home on the men’s faces.
He had nerved himself now with memories and conquered his qualms. He felt that it would be easy work and pleasant to drag James Finlay to earth and trample the life out of him. The thought of the insults of the brutal men who held Una and his own impotent struggles with the belt which bound him made him fierce enough. But the mood passed. His mind reverted to the subject which had never, all day, been far from his thoughts. He recalled each detail of his walk back to Dun-severic with Una, her words of praise for his bravery, the resting of her hand in his as they crossed stiles and ditches, the times when it rested in his hand longer than it need have rested, the great moment when he had ventured to clasp and keep it fast. He thrilled as he recollected holding her in his arms, the telling of his love, and Una’s wonderful reply to him. Emotion flooded him. Una loved him as he loved her. The future was impossible, unthinkable. At the best of times he could not hope that proud Lord Dunseveric would consent to let him marry Una; and now, of all times, now, when he was engaged in a dangerous conspiracy, pledged to a fight which he felt already to be hopeless; when he had the hangman’s ladder to look forward to, or, at best, the life of a hunted outlaw and exile to some foreign land; what could he expect now to come of his love for Una? His mind refused to dwell on such thoughts for long. It went back to the simple fact, the glorious, incredible thing which he had learned. Una loved him. That was sufficient for him then. He was happy.
The door of a room somewhere within the house closed noisily. There were footsteps on the stairs and then in the passage. Neal was alert. He quenched the light which hung on the wall and stood in the darkness looking out of the door. He saw three men pass him—James Finlay and the other two. They stood at the street door speaking last words in low voices. Neal sped down the passage to the tap-room. His uncle sat in a cloud of tobacco smoke, with a tumbler in his hand. Round him was gathered a knot of admirers, most of them somewhat tipsy. Donald was telling them stories of the American war. At the sight of Neal he rose quickly and laid down his tumbler. It was evident that he, at least, had drunk no more than he could stand.
“Well, has he moved?” he whispered.
“Yes,” said Neal. “He and the second man are going. They had their hats on and were bidding good night to the first, the man who brought us here.”
Donald left the tap-room quickly. The street door closed, and in the passage he found himself face to face with the gentle-mannered traveller whom he had accosted in the street.
“I think,” said Donald, “that I have the honour of addressing Mr. Hope.”
“James Hope,” said the other, “or Jemmy Hope. I am but a weaver, a simple man. I take no pride in the titles men give each other.”
“James Hope,” said Donald, “I’ve heard of you, and I’ve heard of you as an honest man. I reckon there’s no title higher than that one. I think, sir, that you have a room at your disposal in this house. May I speak with you there? I have matters of some importance.”
James Hope turned without a word and led the way upstairs to a small room. Three candles stood on the table. There were also tumblers and an empty whisky bottle. It was noticeable that there were only two tumblers. James Hope had not been drinking. Donald walked over to the table and blew out one of the candles.
“I’m not more superstitious than other men,” he said, “but I won’t sit in the room with three candles burning. It’s damned unlucky.”
Again, as earlier in the public room, Neal thought that James Hope was going to laugh. But again the laughter got no further than his eyes.
“Now,” said Donald, “if you’ve no objection, I’ll have a fresh bottle on the table and some clean glasses. You know this inn, James Hope, what’s their best drink?”
“I have but a poor head,” said Hope. “I drink nothing but water. But I believe that the whisky is good enough.”
“Neal, my boy,” said Donald, “the wench that bought us our supper is gone to bed, and the landlord’s too drunk to carry anything upstairs. You go and fill the jug there with hot water in the kitchen, and I’ll get some whisky from the taproom.”
Donald filled himself a glass with a generous proportion of spirit, and lit his pipe again.
“I’ve a letter here, addressed to you,” he said.
He fumbled in his breast pocket, drew forth a leather case, and took from it one of the letters which Micah Ward had written. James Hope read it carefully.
“You are,” he said, “the Donald Ward mentioned in this letter, and you are Neal Ward, the son of a man whom we all respect and admire. I bid you welcome.”
He held out his hand, first to Donald, who shook it heartily, and then to Neal. He fixed his dark eyes on the young man’s face, and looked long and steadily at him. Neal’s eyes wavered and dropped before this earnest scrutiny, which seemed to read his very thoughts.
“God bless you and keep you, my boy,” said James Hope. “You are the son of a brave man. I doubt not that you will be a brave man, too, brave in a good cause.”
Donald Ward seemed a little impatient at this long scrutiny of Neal and the speech which followed. He took several gulps of whisky and water and blew clouds of tobacco smoke. He cleared his throat noisily and said.
“You’ll be satisfied, James Hope, by the letter I’ve given you that we are men to be trusted?”
“God forbid else,” said Hope. “Whom should we trust if not the brother and son of Micah Ward?”
“Then I’ll come straight to the point,” said Donald. “Who were the two men that were with you just now?”
“The one of them,” said Hope, “was Aeneas Moylin, a Catholic, and a friend of Charlie Teeling. He’s a man that has done much to bring the Defender boys from County Down and Armagh into the society. He has a good farm of land near by Donegore.”
“And the other?”
“The other you ought to know, Neal Ward. He’s from Dunseveric. His name’s James Finlay.”
“I do know him,” said Neal, “but I don’t trust him.”
“He came to me,” said Hope, “with a letter from your father, like the letter you bring yourself. I have trusted him a great deal.”
“Trust him no more, then,” said Donald, “the man’s a spy. My brother was deceived in him.”
“These are grave words you speak,” said Hope. “Can you make them good?”
Donald told the story of the raid on the Dunseveric meeting-house. He dwelt on the fact that only five or six people knew of the buried cannon, that of these, only one, James Finlay, had left Dunseveric, that Neal Ward’s name had appeared on the list of suspected persons, though Neal had hitherto taken no part and had no knowledge of the doings of the United Irishmen; that his name must have been given to the authorities by some one who had a private spite against him; that James Finlay, and he alone of the people of Dunseveric, had any cause to seek revenge on Neal.
“It’s a case of suspicion,” said James Hope, “of heavy suspicion, but you’ve not proven that the man’s a traitor.”
“No,” said Donald, “it’s not proven. I know that well, but the man ought to be trusted no more until his character is cleared. He ought to be tried and given a chance of defending himself.”
James Hope sat silent. His fingers pushed back the lock of dark hair which hung over his forehead. His face grew stern, and there was a look of determination in his dark eyes. A frown gathered in deep wrinkles on his forehead. At last he spoke.
“You are on your way to Belfast. I shall give you a letter to Felix Matier, who keeps the inn with the sign of Dumouriez in North Street. You will find him easily. His house is a common meeting-place for members of the society. I shall tell him to have a careful watch kept on Finlay, and to communicate with you.”
“I’ll deal with the man,” said Donald, “as soon as I have anything more than suspicion to go on.”
“Deal uprightly, deal justly,” said Hope. “Ours is a sacred cause. It may be God’s will that we are to be victorious, or it may be written in His book that we shall fail. He alone knows the issue. But, either way, our hands must not be stained with crime. We must do justly, aye, and love mercy when mercy can be shown without imperilling the lives of innocent men.”
“Traitors must be dealt with as traitors are in all civilised States,” said Donald.
“Ay, truly, when we are sure that they are traitors.”
“I shall make sure,” said Donald, “and then——”
“Then———,” Hope sighed deeply. “Then—— you are right. There is no help for it. But remember, Donald Ward, that you and I must answer for our actions before the judgment seat of God. Remember, also, that our names and our deeds will be judged by posterity. We must not shrink from stern necessities laid upon us. But let us not give the enemy an excuse to brand us as assassins in the time to come.”
“God damn it, man, you speak to me as if you thought me a hired murderer. I take such language from no man living, and from you no more than another, James Hope. You shall answer for your words and your insinuations.”
Donald stood up as he spoke. His face was deeply flushed. He had drunk heavily during the evening. Even the best men, the leaders of every class and section of society drank heavily in those days. He was an exceptional man who always went to bed in full possession of his senses. Donald Ward was no worse than his fellows. But the man whom he challenged was one of the few for whom the wine bottle had no attractions. He was also one of those—rare in any age—who had learnt the mastery of self, whom no words, even insulting words, can drive beyond the limits of their patience.
“If I have spoken anything which hurts or vexes you, Donald Ward, I am sorry for it. I had no wish to do so. Comrades in a great enterprise must not quarrel with each other. I offer you my hand in token that I do not think of you as anything but an honourable man.”
“Spoken like a gentleman,” said Donald, grasping the outstretched hand. “Enough said, you have satisfied me that you meant no insult. A gentleman can do no more.”
“I am not what they call a gentleman,” said James Hope, “I am only a poor weaver with no claim to any such title.”