e yeomen,
are after him. Do not give him up to them. They will hang him if they
get him. Keep him safe. Do not let them take him."

"Young lady, Miss," said Captain Getty, "stand up and dry your eyes.
Your sweetheart's safe while he stands on my deck. Safe from them. For
tempests and fire and the perils of the deep, and the act of God"--he
lifted his cap from his head--"I can't swear, but as for darned British
soldiers of any kind--such scum set no foot on the deck of Captain
Hercules Getty's brig--the _Saratoga_. You see that rag there, young
lady, that rag flying from the gaff of the spanker, it's not much to
look at, maybe, not up to the high-toned level of the crosses and the
lions that spread themselves and ramp about on other flags, but I
guess a man's free when that flies over him. You take my word for it,
Miss--the word of Captain Hercules Getty--the Britisher will knuckle
under to that rag. He's seen the stars and stripes before now, and he
knows he's just got to slip his tail in between his hind legs and scoot,
scoot tarnation quick from the place where that rag flutters on the
breeze."

CHAPTER XX

In the summer of 1800 the Act of Union was passed. The Irish
Constitution ceased to exist. The country lay torpid and apathetic under
the blow. Blood had been let in Antrim and Down, in Wexford and Wicklow.
The society of United Irishmen was broken. The Protestant gentry were
frightened or bribed. They, or the greater part of them, surrendered
their birthright without even Esau's hunger for excuse. Roman Catholic
ecclesiastics, deluded by the promise of emancipation, which was not
kept for many a long year afterwards, offered a dubious welcome to the
English power. The people, cowed, helpless, expectant of little any way,
waited in numb indifference for what the new order was to bring. There
was little joy and little cause for joy in Ireland then.

From the gate of Dunseveric House, in the twilight of the short October
afternoon, came a young man who seemed to feel no sense of depression or
sadness. He strode briskly along the muddy road, swinging his stick in
his hand, whistling a merry tune. After a while, for very exuberance
of spirits, he broke into song. His voice rang clear through the damp,
misty air--

"Oh, my love's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June:
Oh, my love's like the melody
That's sweetly played in tune."

A hundred yards or so further alon