ey obeyed their leaders--how implicitly
they confided in every direction given for their guidance. Can
patriotism like this survive such a trial? Will they ever believe in
the words of their chief again?--were questions which his heart answered
despondingly.

The day wore over in these sad musings, and by evening, Mark, who had
made a wide circuit of the country, arrived at the village of Lucan,
where he passed the night. As day was breaking, he was again on the
road, directing his steps towards Wicklow, where in the wild district
near Blessington, he had acquaintance with several farmers, all
sincerely devoted to the "United party." It was as much to rescue his
own character from any false imputations that might be cast on it, as
from any hope of learning favourable tidings, that he turned hither. The
mountain country, too, promised security for the present, and left him
time to think what course he should follow.

Mark did not miscalculate the good feeling of the people in this
quarter. No success, however triumphant, would have made him one half
so popular as his disasters had done. That he had been betrayed, was an
appeal stronger than all others to their best affections; and had the
deliverance of Ireland depended on his safety, there could not have been
greater efforts to provide for it, nor more heartfelt solicitude for his
own comfort. He found, too, that the treachery of individuals did not
shake general confidence in the success of the plot, so much hope had
they of French assistance and co-operation. These expectations were
often exaggerated, because the victories of the French armies had been
represented as triumphs against which no opposition availed; but
they served to keep up national courage; and the theme of all their
discourses and their ballads was the same: "The French will do us
right."

If Mark did not fully concur in the expectations so confidently formed,
he was equally far from feeling disposed to throw any damper on them;
and at length, as by daily intercourse these hopes became familiarized
to his mind, he ended by a partial belief in that future to which all
still looked, undismayed by past reverses: and in this way time rolled
on, and the embers of rebellion died not out, but smouldered.

CHAPTER XXXV. THE WANDERER'S RETURN

It was about two months after the events detailed in the last chapter,
on the evening of a bright day in midsummer, that a solitary traveller
was seen descen