meanwhile, under the same roof, but in far different quarters, the young irishman called richard trevor was talking to his servant, the same who had led his horse up and down in the inn-yard under lady betty’s window. the room—an attic one—was scarcely ten feet square, and almost devoid of furniture; there was a pallet, a table, and two chairs; and a mat of braided straw at the foot of the master’s bed served for the man’s. a single candle burned low in its socket on the table, and here richard trevor sat with some writing materials before him, but he was not writing; he leaned back in his chair and listened, with his amused smile, to the glib talk of his attendant.

“faix, sir, they be afther charging more here for a bite of mate or a dhrap of liquor thin in anny ither place in th’ kingdom,” said the man[pg 111] dolefully; “i’ve bin afther minding yer lordship’s insthructions about the money, an’ by the powers, me stomach is loike to clave to me backbone.”

“we can starve respectably, however, denis,” said his master smiling, and turning the contents of his purse out on the table; “a small sum for our needs, but it must serve,” he added, counting the money with a reckless air; “besides, one of us may die before we come to the end of it.”

“we’ll be afther doin’ it here, yer honor,” said denis gloomily, “from an impty stomach. betwane th’ landlord an’ the ranting, tearing whig gintry in th’ stable-yard, sir, i’m clane daft.”

“so they’re all for the king in possession, are they?” said trevor, in an amused tone; “i hope you’ve heeded my instructions to keep your tongue quiet in your head and mind your own business.”

“faix, me lord, i’ve bin afther minding mine, but they’re afther minding it too, th’ ill-favored thribe!”

“that is because you are an irishman, denis; they know that at once.”

“indade, yer lordship’s mistaken intirely; they’ve no idee at all that i’m a munster[pg 112] man,” said his servant, with an air of satisfaction, “divil a bit of it! sometimes i’m a frenchy an’ sometimes i’m a dutchy—but an irishman niver! lady clancarty’s woman—a sly divil with a pair of eyes that be winking etarnally—she’s bin swate to me. by the virgin, sir, she’s bin afther thryin’ to sound me about yer lordship. she looks at me and purrs, for all th’ wurruld, loike a big white tabby, an’ says she, ‘you’re an irishman, sir!’ ‘divil a bit, me darlint,’ says i, ‘i’m a dutchman, born at th’ hague and me mither was forty-first cousin, wanst removed, to th’ king’s grandmither,’ says i. ‘ye don’t tell me!’ says she, and her little pale eyes blinked loike a candle in th’ wind. ‘an’ what’ll be yer name, sir?’ she asks, as swate as honey. ‘mynheer tulipius,’ says i, for i couldn’t think of anither name for th’ life of me. ‘la, sir,’ says she with a simper, ‘you look loike a tulip, to be shure.’ ‘so i do, me darlint,’ i replied, and i thried to make up me mind to kiss her, but, bedad, sir, i couldn’t do it; there’s something about her that sinds the cowld creeps up me spine.”

“you’re a great coward, denis,” said his master smiling, “afraid of a woman! it’s a new fault in you, and one that i did not expect.[pg 113] as for this creature, what were her questions about me?”

“‘yer master’s an irishman, mynheer tulipius,’ says she, ‘that we all know fer a fact.’ ‘is he, indade?’ says i, with the greatest amazement; ‘’tis the first time i iver heard it,’ says i; ‘he was born in london and his fayther was one of gineral cromwell’s ironsides.’ ‘ye don’t say so,’ says she, ‘how iver did he get on so well at saint germain thin?’ and she blinked a hundred times in a second. ‘saint germain!’ says i, opening my eyes wide; ‘indade, they were so cowld to him there that he was afther laving before he got there,’ says i, ‘it’s quite well known,’ i wint on, as slick as silk, ‘that whin the man jimmy stuart, rayalized that my masther was in france he put on a shirt of mail an’ niver took it off at all, even av he was aslape in his ruffled silk night-rail, for fear he’d be kilt on th’ field of honor.’ ‘is that so?’ says she; ‘an’ thin p’r’aps ye’ve met me lord clancarty out there?’ ‘clancarty?’ says i, squinting hard with wan eye, ‘there was a gintleman of that same name hung jist as i was afther laving holland—mebbe he’s yer friend?’ by saint patrick, me lord, you ought to have sane her stare! she sthopped winking thin,[pg 114] an’ looked loike a cat that’s sane a bird; on me sowl, sir, i looked to see av there wasn’t a furry tail swinging behind, to wurk th’ charm on me. ‘clancarty hung?’ says she, clapping her hand to her heart, ‘what for?’ ‘faix, i don’t know, me darlint,’ says i, ‘unless it was for being too much of a whig.’ ‘pshaw!’ cries she, stamping her foot, ‘ye’re a paddy fool!’ ‘niver a bit,’ says i, ‘i’m a dutch wizard, me darlint; just let me be afther telling yer fortune.’ but away she wint in a towering rage, an’ left me with me heart broken intirely at the siparation.”

“i fear you did not deceive her,” said clancarty, with a laugh, and he unsheathed his sword, running his finger along the blade. “my old friend needs polishing, denis,” he added, with his careless air of good humor, “i’ve a duel on my hands for the morning.”

the irishman’s face sobered in an instant, and he cast a look of concern at his master.

“i’m sorra for it, me lord,” he said, with an honest ring in his voice, “ye’ve no friends here.”

“except you, denis,” said his master kindly, “and if i fall, all my effects are yours—and—” he paused an instant and then laughed recklessly, “and you can tell the widow.”

[pg 115]“she’s a foine lady, me lord,” said denis artfully, “’tis a pity to throw away yer life now.”

“she’s a woman to die for, denis,” exclaimed his lord, a sudden glow passing over his face; “but i shall not die—faith, i’ve fought too many duels to die in one.”

“there’s always loike to be wan too many, yer honor,” said denis gravely, “and wan thrust of th’ sword and th’ house of macarthy loses its head.”

the young man laughed recklessly.

“and a beggarly exile dies,” he said bitterly. “i fear you are not a man of courage, denis; i think i’ve heard of you in the retreat from boyne,” he added, with a laughing glance at the dark-faced, sturdy irishman.

“ah, sir, that was the fault of me shoes, an’ i blush for it,” denis replied.

“your shoes,” repeated his master, “and wherefore your shoes?”

“’twas afther this fashion, me lord,” said denis gravely; “there was a scamp of a shoemaker in dublin that was accused, an’ rightly as i b’lave, of being allied with the powers of darkness, and he was afther making me shoes. about that time money was scarce, sir, as ye know, in spite of king james’s brass pieces, and[pg 116] it was glad i was to get the shoes at all, without bein’ over an’ above particular about the maker. so whin danny o’toole says to me that he’ll make me a blooming pair of boots an’ thrust me fer the money, niver a thought had i av the divilish plot he was afther laying aginst me honor. ‘make ’em aisy,’ says i, ‘for me feet are sore with the chasing of the english an’ the dutch.’ ‘don’t ye worry,’ says he with a wink, ‘i’ll make ’em so aisy they’ll walk off without ye,’—and faith, so he did! they were the beautifullest shoes, me lord, and they fitted me loike the skin on a potaty, and as fer walking in ’em, they niver touched the ground unless they stuck fast in a bog, and that wasn’t often. i niver had such a pair of shoes, nor such comfort, and all wint along as smooth as lying—until that cursed day of the battle of boyne.”

“a day when a good many irishmen had no shoes, denis,” remarked his master, “or lost them in running—to our eternal shame!”

“that wasn’t what happened to me, my lord,” said denis regretfully; “’twas a black day fer ireland; yer lordship niver spake a thruer word! but, as fer me, my shoes had bin running away from me so—the very divil seemed to be in ’em—that i cut some stout[pg 117] thongs of hide and bound those boots to me legs before i wint into the battle, fer, thought i, av i don’t i’ll be afther losing them, the jewels! i was right in the thick of it, an’ a hot day it was, as yer honor knows, and but for that divil of a dutchman that they call king, we moight have won, but he drove his men through the river loike a demon! well, sir, i was right in the thick of the carnage; i’d jist cut a clane swathe through the dutch blues, and i was daling death and desthruction on ivery side, following in th’ thrack of sarsfield, whin, all of a suddent, me shoes turned me around and comminced to run. i was beside meself with the shame of it, me lord. i cut at those thongs with my sword an’ i swore an’ called on the saints and the divils, but niver a bit could i get those boots off, and away they ran, loike the wind, splash through the mud and the mire, and they niver sthopped until we reached dublin; but, my lord,” denis lowered his voice and winked one eye, “even my shoes didn’t get there—before king james!”

“alas, no,” said his master sternly, “it was a king we lacked,” and he rose and walked twice across the room, his face darkly clouded.

his man watched him keenly, with an expression[pg 118] of deep concern and simple affection,—the humble devotion of a faithful dog.

“you will clean my sword and call me an hour before sunrise, denis,” he said; “i will snatch some hours’ rest, even if it happens to be my turn to-morrow,” and he laughed as he began to cast off his garments with his servant’s help.

denis shook his head sadly. “ah, me lord clancarty,” he said with a break in his voice, “’twould be a sad day fer me, and you are so ready to die with a smile on your lips. ye were iver so, but ye’ll break a heart some day, me lord, jist as recklessly—an’ ye’ll forgive me fer saying it.”

“there is not much that i would not forgive you, old denis,” said the young nobleman kindly, “we’re old friends and tried. but what have i to live for at best, unless it be the headsman’s block? i am a proscribed and penniless outlaw, denis; if, by any chance, i am recognized, i go to the tower. i have no friends here; not even my wife knows who i am—and why should she? it seems but folly to think of her, when i have only an exile’s life to offer her—i am a fool, a wretched fool!”

“indade, me lord, ye greatly misjudge a woman av you think she’ll be afther counting[pg 119] yer money—or the costs ayther,” said denis quietly; “a woman niver thinks of it, bless her heart, she jist falls in love, and thin to the divil with prudence or wisdom ayther. and, by the virgin, me lady clancarty is none of yer cowards. i’ve sane the spark in her eye, me lord, and if it plazes her, she’ll fight yer battles, sir, to the ind of time.”

lord clancarty smiled. “exactly, denis,” said he, “but if i do not please her?”

denis was on his knees, drawing off his master’s shoes.

“she’d be a blind woman, thin, sir,” he said, “and faix, i’ll wager me lady knows a foine man whin she sees wan. but, pshaw, sir, by to-morrow night ye may be stark and stiff and ready for the churchyard,” and denis shook his head dolefully.

the earl laughed, throwing himself upon his hard bed.

“put out the taper, denis,” he said, “we’ll hope for the best. if i can’t live for my lady, at least i can die for her—with a light heart,” and he turned his face to the wall with a laugh.

denis wiped his eyes on his sleeve and wagged his head again and again, his mind on the morrow.