the red winter sun sank to hide itself below the waste of atlantic waters as the hen hawk, still held snugly in the grasp of the breeze, beat round the grim cliffs of three-castle head, and entered dun-manus bay. the englishman had been set adrift hours before, and by this time, no doubt, the telegraph had spread to every remotest point on the southern and western coast warning descriptions of the vessel and its master. perhaps even now their winged flight into the west was being followed from cape clear, which lay behind them in the misty and darkening distance. still the hen hawk’s course was confidently shaped homeward, for many miles of bog and moorland separated muirisc from any electric current.
the o’mahony had hung in meditative solitude over the tiller for hours, watching the squatting groups of retainers playing silently at “spoil-five” on the forward deck, and revolving in his mind the thousand and one confused and clashing thoughts which this queer new situation suggested. as the sun went down he called to jerry, and the two, standing together at the stern, looked upon the great ball of fire descending behind the gray expanse of trackless waters, without a word. rude and untutored as they were, both were conscious, in some vague way, that when this sun should rise again their world would be a different thing.
“well, pard,” said the master, when only a bar of flaming orange marked where the day had gone, “it’ll be a considerable spell, i reckon, afore i see that sort o’ thing in these waters again.”
“is it l’avin’ the country we are, thin?” asked jerry, in a sympathetic voice.
“no, not exactly. you’ll stay here. but i cut sticks to-morrow.”
“sure, then, it’s not alone ye’ll be goin’. egor! man, didn’t i take me bible-oath niver to l’ave yeh, the longest day ye lived? ah—now, don’t be talkin’!”
“that’s all right, jerry—but it’s got to be that way,” replied the o’mahony, in low regretful tones. “i’ve figured it all out. it’ll be mighty tough to go off by myself without you, pard, but i can’t leave the thing without somebody to run it for me, and you are the only one that fills the bill. now don’t kick about it, or make a fuss, or think i’m using you bad. jest say to yourself—‘now he’s my friend, an’ i’m his’n, and if he says i can be of most use to him here, why that settles it.’ take the helm for a minute, jerry. i want to go for’ard an’ say a word to the men.”
the o’mahony looked down upon the unintelligible game being played with cards so dirty that he could not tell them apart, and worn by years of use to the shape of an egg, and waited with a musing smile on his face till the deal was exhausted. the players and onlookers formed a compact group at his knees, and they still sat or knelt or lounged on the deck as they listened to his words.
“boys,” he said, in the gravely gentle tone which somehow he had learned in speaking to these men of muirisc, “i’ve been tellin’ jerry somethin’ that you’ve got a right to know, too. i’m goin’ to light out to-morrow—that is, quit ireland for a spell. it may be for a good while—maybe not. that depends. i hate like the very devil to go—but it’s better for me to skip than to be lugged off to jail, and then to state’s prison—better for me an’ better for you. if i get out, the rest of you won’t be bothered. now—hold on a minute till i git through!—now between us we’ve fixed up muirisc so that it’s a good deal easier to live there than it used to be. there’ll be more mines opened up soon, an’ the lobster fact’ry an’ the fishin’ are on a good footin’ now. i’m goin’ to leave jerry to keep track o’ things, along with o’daly, an’ they’ll let me know regular how matters are workin’, so you won’t suffer by my not bein’ here.”
“ah—thin—it’s our hearts ’ll be broken entirely wid the grief,” wailed dominic, and the others, seizing this note of woe as their key, broke forth in a chorus of lamentation.
they scrambled to their feet with uncovered heads, and clustered about him, jostling one another for possession of his hands, and affectionately patting his shoulders and stroking his sleeves, the while they strove to express in their own tongue, or in the poetic phrases they had fashioned for themselves out of a practical foreign language, the sincerity of their sorrow. but the irish peasant has been schooled through many generations to face the necessity of exile, and to view the breaking of households, the separation of kinsmen, the recurring miseries attendant upon an endless exodus across the seas, with the philosophy of the inevitable. none of these men dreamed of attempting to dissuade the o’mahony from his purpose, and they listened with melancholy nods of comprehension when he had secured silence, and spoke again:
“you can all see that it’s got to be,” he said, in conclusion. “and now i want you to promise me this: i don’t expect you’ll have trouble with the police. they won’t get over from balleydehob for another day or two—and by that time i shall be gone, and the hen hawk, too—an’ if they bring over the dingey i gave the englishman to land in, why, of course there won’t be a man, woman or child in muirisc that ever laid eyes on it before.”
“sure, heaven ’u’d blast the eyes that ’u’d recognize that same boat,” said one, and the others murmured their confidence in the hypothetical miracle.
“well, then, what i want you to promise is this: that you’ll go on as you have been doin’, workin’ hard, keepin’ sober, an’ behavin’ yourselves, an’ that you’ll mind what jerry says, same as if i said it myself. an’ more than that—an’ now this is a thing i’m specially sot on—that you’ll look upon that little gal, kate o’mahony, as if she was a daughter of mine, an’ watch over her, an’ make things pleasant for her, an’—an’ treat her like the apple of your eye.”
if there was an apple in the o’mahony’s eye, it was for the moment hidden in a vail of moisture. the faces of the men and their words alike responded to his emotion.
then one of them, a lean and unkempt old mariner, who even in this keen february air kept his hairy breast and corded, sunburnt throat exposed, and whose hawk-like eyes had flashed through fifty years of taciturnity over heaven knows what wild and fantastic dreams born of the sea, spoke up:
“sir, by your l’ave, i’ll mesilf be her bodyguard and her servant, and tache her the wather as befits her blood, and keep the very sole of her fut from harrum.”
“right you are, murphy,” said the o’mahony. “make that your job.”
no one remembered ever having heard murphy speak so much at one time before. to the surprise of the group, he had still more to say.
“and, sir—i’m not askin’ it be way of ricompinse,” the fierce-faced old boatman went on—“but w’u’d your honor grant us wan requist?”
“you’ve only got to spit ’er out,” was the hearty response.
“thin, sir, give us over the man ye ’ve got down stairs.”
the o’mahony’s face changed its expression. he thought for a moment; then asked:
“what to do?”
“to dale wid this night!” said murphy, solemnly.
there was a pause of silence, and then the clamor of a dozen eager voices clashing one against the other in the cold wintry twilight:
“give him over, o’mahony!” “l’ave him to us!” “don’t be soilin’ yer own hands wid the likes of him!” “oh, l’ave him to us!” these voices pleaded.
the o’mahony hesitated for a minute, then slowly shook his head.
“no, boys, don’t ask it,” he said. “i’d like to oblige you, but i can’t. he’s my meat—i can’t give him up!”
“w’u’d yer honor be for sparin’ him, thin?” asked one, with incredulity and surprise.
the o’mahony of muirisc looked over the excited group which surrounded him, dimly recognizing the strangeness of the weirdly interwoven qualities which run in the blood of heber—the soft tenderness of nature which through tears would swear loyalty unto death to a little child, shifting on the instant to the ferocity of the wolf-hound burying its jowl in the throat of its quarry. beyond them were gathering the sea mists, as by enchantment they had gathered ages before with vain intent to baffle the sons of milesius, and faintly in the halflight lowered the beetling cliffs whereon the o’mahonys, true sons of those sea-rovers, had crouched watching for their prey this thousand of years. he could almost feel the ancestral taste of blood in his mouth as he looked, and thought upon his answer.
“no, don’t worry about his gitting off,” he said, at last. “i ’ll take care of that. you’ll never see him again—no one on top of this earth ’ll ever lay eyes on him again.”
with visible reluctance the men forced themselves to accept this compromise. the hen hawk plunged doggedly along up the bay.
three hours later, the o’mahony and jerry, not without much stumbling and difficulty, reached the strange subterranean chamber where they had found the mummy of the monk. they bore between them the inert body of a man, whose head was enveloped in bandages, and whose hands, hanging limp at arm’s length, were discolored with the grime and mold from the stony path over which they had dragged. they threw this burden on the mediaeval bed, and, drawing long breaths of relief, turned to light some candles in addition to the lantern jerry had borne, and to kindle a fire on the hearth.
they talked in low murmurs meanwhile. the o’mahony had told jerry something of what part linsky had played in his life. jerry, without being informed with more than the general outlines of the story, was able swiftly to comprehend his master’s attitude toward the man—an attitude compounded of hatred for his treachery of to-day and gratitude of the services which he had unconsciously performed in the past. he understood to a nicety, too, what possibilities there were in the plan which the o’mahony now unfolded to him, as the fire began crackling up the chimney.
“i can answer for his gittin’ over that crack in the head,” said the o’mahony, heating and stirring a tin cup full of balsam over the flame. “once i’ve fixed this bandage on, we can bring him to with ammonia and whisky, an’ give him some broth. he’ll live all right—an’ he’ll live right here, d’ye mind. whatever else happens, he’s never to git outside, an’ he’s never to know where he is. nobody but you is to so much as dream of his bein’ down here—be as mum as an oyster about it, won’t you? you’re to have sole charge of him, d’ye see—the only human being he ever lays eyes on.”
“egor! i’ll improve his moind wid grand discourses on trayson and informin’ an’ betrayin’ his oath, and the like o’ that, till he’ll be fit to die wid shame.”
“no—i dunno—p’r’aps it’d be better not to let him know we know—jest make him think we’re his friends, hidin’ him away from the police. however, that can take care of itself. say whatever you like to him, only—”
“only don’t lay a hand on him—is it that ye were thinkin’?” broke in jerry.
“yes, don’t lick him,” said the o’mahony. “he’s had about the worst bat on the head i ever saw a a man git an’ live, to start with. no—be decent with him, an’ give him enough to eat. might let him have a moderate amount o’ drink, too.”
“i suppose there’ll be a great talk about his vanishin’ out o’ sight all at wance among the brotherhood,” suggested jerry.
“that don’t matter a darn,” said the other. “jest you go ahead, an’ tend to your own knittin’, an’ let the brotherhood whistle. we’ve paid a good stiff price to learn what fenianism is worth, and we’ve learned enough. not any more on my plate, thankee! jest give the boys the word that the jig is up—that there won’t be any more drillin’ or meanderin’ round generally. and speakin’ o’ drink—”
a noise from the curtained bed in the alcove interrupted the o’mahony’s remarks upon this important subject. turning, the two men saw that linsky had risen on the couch to a half-sitting posture, and, with a tremulous hand, drawing aside the felt-like draperies, was staring wildly at them out of blood-shot eyes.
“for the love of god, what is it?” he asked, in a faint and moaning voice.
“lay down there!—quick!” called out the o’mahony, sternly; and linsky fell back prone without a protest.
the o’mahony had finished melting his gum, and he spread it now salve-like upon a cloth. then he walked over to where the wounded man lay, with marvel-stricken eyes wandering over the archaic vaulted ceiling.
“is it dead i am?” he groaned, with a vacuous glance at the new-comer.
“no, you’ve been badly hurt in battle,” said the other, in curt tones. “we can pull you through, perhaps; but you’ve got to shut up an’ lay still. hold your head this way a little more—that’s it.”
the injured man submitted to the operation, for the most part, with apparently closed eyes, but his next remark showed that he had been gathering his wits together.
“and how’s the battle gone, captain harrier?” he suddenly asked. “is oireland free from the oppressor at last?”
“no!” said the o’mahony, with dry brevity—“but she’ll be free from you for a spell, or i miss my guess most consumedly.”
