at, after all,
they were not required to take the leap, relieved the disappointment
and lessened the shame. They were well out of an ugly scrape, they
reflected; well clear of the ugly shadow of the gallows--always
supposing that no informer appeared. It might even be the hand of
Providence, they thought, that had removed their leaders, and so held
them back. They might think themselves happy to be quit of it for the
fright.

But there was one--one who found no such consolation; one to whom the
issue was pure loss, a shameful defeat, the end of hopes, the defeat of
prayers that had never risen to heaven more purely than that morning.

Flavia sat with her eyes on the dead peat that cumbered the hearth--for
in the general excitement the fire had been suffered to go out--and in
a stupor of misery refused to be comforted. Of her plans, of her
devotion, of her lofty resolves, this was the result. She had aspired,
God knew how honestly and earnestly, for her race downtrodden and her
faith despised, and this was the bitter fruit. Nor was it only the
girl's devotion to her country and to her faith that lay sore wounded:
her vanity suffered, and perhaps more keenly. The enterprise that was
to have glorified the name of McMurrough, that was to have raised that
fallen race, that was to have made that distant province blessed among
the provinces of Ireland, had come to an end, derisive and contemptible,
before it was born. Her spirit, unbroken by experience and untrained to
defeat, fearing before all things ridicule, dashed itself against the
dreadful conviction, the dreadful fact. She could hardly believe that
all was over. She could hardly realise that the cup was no longer at
her lip, that the bird had escaped from the hand. But she looked from
the window; and, lo, the courtyard which had hummed and seethed was
dead and silent. In one corner a knot of men were carrying out the arms
and the powder, and were preparing to bury them. In another, a
woman--it was Sullivan Og's widow--sat weeping. It was the _Hic jacet_
of the great Rising that was to have been, and that was to have
regenerated Ireland!

And "You must kill him!" she cried, with livid cheeks and blazing eyes.
"If you do not, I will!"

Uncle Ulick, who had heard the story of the ambush, and beyond doubt
was one of those who felt more relief than disappointment, stretched
his legs uneasily. He longed to comfort her, but he did not know what
to say. Moreover, he was a