he door on the two, and hurried along the path at
the full stretch of his legs. In half a minute he had overtaken his
companion, and the two pressed on together on the heels of the main
party.

The old beldame, left alone with the girl, viewed her with an
astonishment which would have been greater if she had not reached that
age at which all sensations become dulled. How the Lady of the House,
who was to her both Power and Providence, came to be there, and there
in that state, passed her conception. But she had the sense to loosen
the girl's frock at the neck, to throw water on her face, and to beat
her hands. In a very few minutes Flavia, who had never swooned
before--fashionable as the exercise was at this period in feminine
society--sighed once or twice, and came to herself.

"Where am I?" she muttered. Still for some moments she continued to
look about her in a dazed way; at length she recognised the old woman,
and the cottage. Then she remembered, with a moan, what had
happened--the ambuscade, the flight, the knife.

She could not turn whiter, but she shuddered and closed her eyes. At
last, with shrinking, she looked at her dress. "Am I--hurt?" she
whispered.

The old woman did not understand, but she patted Flavia's hand.
Meanwhile the girl saw that there was no blood on her dress, and she
found courage to raise her hand to her throat. She found no wound. At
that she smiled faintly. Then she began to cry--for she was a woman.

But, broken as she was by that moment of terror, Flavia's indulgence in
the feminine weakness was short, for it was measured by the time she
devoted to thoughts of her own fortunes. Quickly, very quickly, she
overcame her weakness; she stood up, she understood, and she extended
her arms in rage and grief and unavailing passion. That rage which
treachery arouses in the generous breast, that passion which an outrage
upon hospitality kindles in the meanest, that grief which ruined plans
and friends betrayed have bred a thousand times in Irish bosoms--she
felt them all, and intensely. She would that the villains had killed
her! She would that they had finished her life! Why should she survive,
except for vengeance? For not only were her hopes for Ireland fallen;
not only were those who had trusted themselves to The McMurrough
perishing even now in the hands of ruthless foes; but her brother, her
dear, her only brother, whom her prayers, her influence had brought
into this path, he too was