gure, as, leaning on one elbow, he traced with the other hand the
lines upon the map. Unable to control his impatience longer, he cried
out--

"Mark, my brother!" and the next moment they were in each other's arms.

[Illustration: 411]

"You passed Terry on the mountain? He was at his post, I trust?" said
Mark, anxiously.

"Yes, but for his directions I could never have discovered the path."

"All's well, then. Until I hear a certain signal from him, I fear
nothing. The fellow seems neither to eat nor sleep. At least since I've
been here, he has kept watch night and day in the mountains."

"He always loved you, Mark."

"He did so; but now it is not me he thinks of. His whole heart is in the
cause--higher and nobler than a mere worthless life like mine.";

"Poor fellow! he is but half-witted at best," said Herbert.

"The more reason for his fidelity now," said Mark, bitterly. "The men
of sense are traitors to their oaths, and false to their friends. The
enterprise cannot reckon, save on the fool or the madman. I know the
taunt you hint at, as----"

"My dearest brother," cried Herbert, with streaming eyes.

"My own dear Herbert, forgive me," said Mark, as he flung his arm round
his neck. "These bursts of passion come over me after long and
weary thoughts. I am tired to-day. Tell me, how are they all at
Carrig-na-curra?"

"Well, and, I would say, happy, Mark, were it not for their anxieties
about you. My uncle heard some news to-day so threatening in its nature,
that he has set out for Dublin post haste, and merely wrote these few
lines, which he gave me for you before he started."

Mark read the paper twice over, and then tearing it, threw the fragments
at his feet, while he muttered--

"I cannot, I must not leave this."

"But your safety depends on it, Mark--so, my uncle pressed upon me. The
danger is imminent, and, he said, fatal."

"So would it be, were I to leave my post. I cannot tell you, Herbert--I
dare not reveal to you what our oath forbids me:--but here I must
remain."

"And this dress, Mark--why increase the risk you run by a uniform which
actually designates treason?"

"Who will dare to tell me so?" cried Mark, impetuously. "The uniform is
that of a French grenadier--the service whose toil is glory, and whose
cause is liberty. It is enough that I do not wear it without authority.
You can satisfy yourself on that head soon. Read this," and he unfolded
a paper, which, bearing the arms and