flight. That is Kilmorran
Castle, the residence of Sir Simon Bellew. There, for centuries past,
his ancestors were born and died; there, in the midst of that wild and
desolate grandeur, the haughty descendants of an ancient house lived on
from youth to age, surrounded by all the observances of feudal state,
and lording it far and near, for many a mile, with a sway and power that
would seem to have long since passed away.

You carry your eye seaward, and I perceive your attention is fixed upon
the small schooner that lies anchored in the offing; her topsail is in
the clews, and flaps lazily against the mast, as she rolls and pitches
in the breaking surge. The rake of her low masts and the long boom that
stretches out far beyond her taffrail have, you deem it, a somewhat
suspicious look; and you are right. She is _La Belle Louise_, a
smuggling craft from Dieppe, whose crew, half French, half Irish, would
fight her to the gunwale, and sink with but never surrender her. You
hear the plash of oars, and there now you can mark the eight-oared gig
springing to the stroke, as it shoots from the shore and heads out to
sea. Sir Simon loves claret, and like a true old Irish gentleman he
drinks it from the wood; there may, therefore, be some reason why those
wild-looking red-caps have pulled in shore.

But now I'll ask you to turn to an humbler scene, and look within that
room where the window, opened to the ground, is bordered by blossoming
honeysuckle. It is the priest's parlour. At a little breakfast-table,
whose spotless cloth and neat but simple equipage has a look of
propriety and comfort, is seated one whose gorgeous dressing-gown and
lounging attitude seem strangely at variance with the humble objects
around him. He seems endeavouring to read a newspaper, which ever and
anon he lays down beside him, and turns his eyes in the direction of the
fire; for although it is July, yet a keen freshness of the morning air
makes the blazing turf by no means objectionable. He looks towards the
fire, perhaps you would say, lost in his own thoughts and musings; but
no, truth must out, and his attention is occupied in a very different
way. Kneeling before the fire is a young and lovely country-girl,
engaged in toasting a muffin for the priest's breakfast. Her features
are flushed, partly with shame, partly with heat; and as now and then
she throws back her long hair from her face with an impatient toss of
her head, she steals a glance at t