the good people of muirisc had shut themselves up in their cabins, on this inclement evening of which i have spoken, almost before the twilight faded from the storm-wrapt outlines of the opposite coast. if any adventurous spirit of them all had braved the blast, and stood out on the cliff to see night fall in earnest upon the scene, perhaps between wild sweeps of drenching and blinding spray, he might have caught sight of a little vessel, with only its jib set, plunging and laboring in the trough of the atlantic outside. and if the spectacle had met his eyes, unquestionably his first instinct would have been to mutter a prayer for the souls of the doomed men upon this fated craft.

on board the hen hawk a good many prayers had already been said. the small coaster seemed, to its terrified crew, to have shrunk to the size of a walnut shell, so wholly was it the plaything of the giant waters which heaved and tumbled about it, and shook the air with the riotous tumult of their sport. there were moments when the vessel hung poised and quivering upon the very ridge of a huge mountain of sea, like an alpine climber who shudders to find himself balanced upon a crumbling foot of rock between two awful depths of precipice; then would come the breathless downward swoop into howling space and the fierce buffeting of ton-weight blows as the boat staggered blindly at the bottom of the abyss; then again the helpless upward sweep, borne upon the shoulders of titan waves which reared their vast bulk into the sky, the dizzy trembling upon the summit, and the hideous plunge—a veritable nightmare of torture and despair.

five men lay or knelt on deck huddled about the mainmast, clinging to its hoops and ropes for safety. now and again, when the vessel was lifted to the top of the green walls of water, they caught vague glimpses of the distant rocks, darkling through the night mists, which sheltered muirisc, their home—and knew in their souls that they were never to reach that home alive. the time for praying was past. drenched to the skin, choked with the salt spray, nearly frozen in the bitter winter cold, they clung numbly to their hold, and awaited the end.

one of them strove to gild the calamity with cheerfulness, by humming and groaning the air of a “come-all-ye” ditty, the croon of which rose with quaint persistency after the crash of each engulfing wave had passed. the others were, perhaps, silently grateful to him—but they felt that if jerry had been a born muirisc man, he could not have done it.

at the helm, soaked and gaunt as a water-rat, with his feet braced against the waist-rails, and the rudder-bar jammed under his arm and shoulder, was a sixth man—the master and owner of the hen hawk. the strain upon his physical strength, in thus by main force holding the tiller right, had for hours been unceasing—and one could see by his dripping face that he was deeply wearied. but sign of fear there was none.

only a man brought up in the interior of a country, and who had come to the sea late in life, would have dared bring this tiny cockle-shell of a coaster into such waters upon such a coast. the o’ma-hony might himself have been frightened had he known enough about navigation to understand his present danger. as it was, all his weariness could nor destroy the keen sense of pleasurable excitement he had in the tremendous experience. he forgot crew and cargo and vessel itself in the splendid zest of this mad fight with the sea and the storm. he clung to the tiller determinedly, bowing his head to the rush of the broken waves when they fell, and bending knees and body this way and that to answer the wild tossings and sidelong plung-ings of the craft—always with a light as of battle in his gray eyes. it was ever so much better than fighting with mere men.

the gloom of twilight ripened into pitchy darkness, broken only by momentary gleams of that strange, weird half-light which the rushing waves generate in their own crests of foam. the wind rose in violence when the night closed in, and the vessel’s timbers creaked in added travail as huge seas lifted and hurled her onward through the black chaos toward the rocks. the men by the mast could every few minutes discern the red lights from the cottage windows of muirisc, and shuddered anew as the glimmering sparks grew nearer.

four of these five unhappy men were muirisc born, and knew the sea as they knew their own mothers. the marvel was that they had not revolted against this wanton sacrifice of their lives to the whim or perverse obstinacy of an ignorant landsman, who a year ago had scarcely known a rudder from a jib-boom. they themselves dimly wondered at it now, as they strained their eyes for a glimpse of the fatal crags ahead. they had indeed ventured upon some mild remonstrance, earlier in the day, while it had still been possible to set the mainsail, and by long tacks turn the vessel’s course. but the o’mahony had received their suggestion with such short temper and so stern a refusal, that there had been nothing more to be said—bound to him as muirisc men to their chief, and as fenians to their leader, as they were. and soon thereafter it became too late to do aught but scud bare-poled before the gale; and now there was nothing left but to die.

they could hear at last, above the shrill clamor of wind and rolling waves, the sullen roar of breakers smashing against the cliffs. they braced themselves for the great final crash, and muttered fragments of the litany of the saints between clenched teeth.

a prodigious sea grasped the vessel and lifted it to a towering height, where for an instant it hung trembling. then with a leap it made a sickening dive down, down, till it was fairly engulfed in the whirling floods which caught it and swept wildly over its decks. a sinister thrill ran through the stout craft’s timbers, and upon the instant came the harsh grinding sound of its keel against the rocks. the men shut their eyes.

a dreadful second—and lo! the hen hawk, shaking herself buoyantly like a fisher-fowl emerging after a plunge, floated upon gently rocking waters—with the hoarse tumult of storm and breakers comfortably behind her, and at her sides only the sighing-harp music of the wind in the sea-reeds.

“hustle now, an’ git out your anchor!” called out the cheerful voice of the o’mahony, from the tiller.

the men scrambled from their knees as in a dream. they ran out the chain, reefed the jib, and then made their way over the flush deck aft, slapping their arms for warmth, still only vaguely realizing that they were actually moored in safety, inside the sheltered salt-water marsh, or muirisc, which gave their home its name.

this so-called swamp was at high tide, in truth, a very respectable inlet, which lay between the tongue of arable land on which the hamlet was built and the high jutting cliffs of the coast to the south. its entrance, a stretch of water some forty yards in width, was over a bar of rock which at low tide could only be passed by row-boats. at its greatest daily depth, there was not much water to spare under the forty-five tons of the hen hawk. she had been steered now in utter darkness, with only the scattered and confusing lights of the houses to the left for guidance, unerringly upon the bar, and then literally lifted and tossed over it by the great rolling wall of breakers. she lay now tossing languidly on the choppy waters of the marsh, as if breathing hard after undue exertion—secure at last behind the cliffs.

the o’mahony slapped his arms in turn, and looked about him. he was not in the least conscious of having performed a feat which any yachtsman in british waters would regard as incredible.

“now, jerry,” he said, calmly, “you git ashore and bring out the boat. you other fellows open the hatchway, an’ be gittin’ the things out. be careful about your candle down-stairs. you know why. it won’t do to have a light up here on deck. some of the women might happen to come out-doors an see us.”

without a word, the crew, even yet dazed at their miraculous escape, proceeded to carry out his orders. the o’mahony bit from his plug a fresh mouthful of tobacco, and munched it meditatively, walking up and down the deck in the darkness, and listening to the high wind howling overhead.

the hen hawk had really been built at barnstable, a dozen years before, for the devon fisheries, but she did not look unlike those unwieldy dutch boats which curious summer visitors watch with unfailing interest from the soft sands of scheveningen.

her full-flushed deck had been an afterthought, dating back to the time when her activities were diverted from the fishing to the carrying industry. the o’mahony had bought her at cork, ostensibly for use in the lobster-canning enterprise which he had founded at muirisc. duck-breasted, squat and thick-lined, she looked the part to perfection.

the men were busy now getting out from the hold below a score of small kegs, each wrapped in oil skin swathings, and, after these, more than a score of long, narrow wooden cases, which, as they were passed up the little gangway from the glow of candlelight into the darkness, bore a gloomy resemblance to coffins. an hour passed before the empty boat returned from shore, having landed its finishing load, and the six men, stiff and chilled, clumsily swung themselves over the side of the vessel into it.

“sure, it’s a new layse of life, i’m beginnin’,” murmured one of them, dominic by name, as he clambered out upon the stone landing-place. “it’s dead i was intoirely—an’ restricted agin, glory be to the lord!”

“sh-h! you shall have some whisky to make a fresh start on when we’re through,” said the o’mahony. “jerry, you run ahead an’ open the side door. don’t make any noise. mrs. sullivan’s got ears that can hear grass growin’. we’ll follow on with the things.”

the carrying of the kegs and boxes across the village common to the castle, in which the master bore his full share of work, consumed nearly another hour. some of the cottage lights ceased to burn. not a soul stirred out of doors.

the entrance opened by jerry was a little postern door, access to which was gained through the deserted and weed-grown church-yard, and the possible use of which was entirely unsuspected by even the housekeeper, let alone the villagers at large. the men bore their burdens through this, traversing a long, low-arched passage-way, built entirely of stone and smelling like an ancient tomb. thence their course was down a precipitous, narrow stairway, winding like the corkscrew stairs of a tower, until, at a depth of thirty feet or more, they reached a small square chamber, the air of which was mustiness itself. here a candle was fastened in a bracket, and the men put down their loads. here, too, it was that jerry, when the last journey had been made, produced a bottle and glasses and dispensed his master’s hospitality in raw spirits, which the men gulped down without a whisper about water.

“mind!—day after to-morrow; five o’clock in the morning, sharp!” said the o’mahony, in admonitory tones. then he added, more softly: “jest take it easy to-morrow; loaf around to suit yourselves, so long’s you keep sober. you’ve had a pritty tough day of it good-night. jerry’n me’ll do the rest. jest pull the door to when you go out.”

with answering “good nights,” and a formal hand-shake all around, the four villagers left the room. their tired footsteps were heard with diminishing distinctness as they went up the stairs.

jerry turned and surveyed his master from head to foot by the light of the candle on the wall.

“o’mahony,” he said, impressively, “you’re a divil, an’ no mistake!”

the other put the bottle to his mouth first. then he licked his lips and chuckled grimly.

“them fellows was scared out of their boots, wasn’t they? an’ you, too, eh?” he asked.

“well, sir, you know it as well as i, the lives of the lot of us would have been high-priced at a thruppenny-bit.”

“pshaw, man! you fellows don’t know what fun is. why, she was safe as a house every minute. an’ here i was, goin’ to compliment you on gittin’ through the hull voyage without bein’ sick once—thought, at last, i was really goin’ to make a sailor of you.”

“egor, afther to-day i’ll believe i’ve the makin’ of annything under the sun in me—or on top of it, ayther. but, sure, sir, you’ll not deny ’twas timptin’ providence saints’ good-will to come in head over heels under wather, the way we did?”

“we had to be here—that’s all,” said the o’mahony, briefly. “i’ve got to meet a man tomorrow, at a place some distance from here, sure pop; and then there’s the big job on next day.” jerry said no more, and the o’mahony took the candle down from the iron ring in the wall.

“d’ye know, i noticed somethin’ cur’ous in the wall out on the staircase here as we come down?” he said, bearing the light before him as he moved to the door. “it’s about a dozen steps up. here it is! what d’ye guess that might a-been?”

the o’mahony held the candle close to the curved wall, and indicated with his free hand a couple of regular and vertical seams in the masonry, about two feet apart, and nearly a man’s height in length.

“there’s a door there, or i’m a dutchman,” he said, lifting and lowering the light in his scrutiny.

the medi忙val builders could have imagined no sight more weird than that of the high, fantastic shadows thrown upon the winding, well-like walls by this drenched and saturnine figure, clad in oilskins instead of armor, and peering into their handiwork with the curiosity of a man nurtured in a log-cabin.

“egor, would it be a dure?” exclaimed the wondering jerry.

his companion handed the candle to him, and took from his pocket a big jack-knife—larger, if anything, than the weapon which had been left under the window of the little farm-house at five forks. he ran the large blade up and down the two long, straight cracks, tapping the stonework here and there with the butt of the handle afterward. finally, after numerous experiments, he found the trick—a bolt to be pushed down by a blade inserted not straight but obliquely—and a thick, iron-bound door, faced with masonry, but with an oaken lining, swung open, heavily and unevenly, upon some concealed pivots.

the o’mahony took the light once more, thrust it forward to make sure of his footing, and then stepped over the newly-discovered threshold, jerry close at his heels. they pushed their way along a narrow and evil-smelling passage, so low that they were forced to bend almost double. suddenly, after traversing this for a long distance, their path was blocked by another door, somewhat smaller than the other. this gave forth a hollow sound when tested by blows.

“it ain’t very thick,” said the o’mahony. “i’ll put my shoulder against it. i guess i can bust her open.”

the resistance was even less than he had anticipated. one energetic shove sufficed; the door flew back with a swift splintering of rotten wood. the o’mahony went stumbling sidelong into the darkness as the door gave way. at the moment a strange, rumbling sound was heard at some remote height above them, and then a crash nearer at hand, the thundering reverberation of which rang with loud echoes through the vault-like passage. the concussion almost put out the candle, and jerry noted that the hand which he instinctively put out to shield the flame was trembling.

“show a light in here, can’t ye?” called out the o’mahony from the black obscurity beyond the broken door. “sounds as if the hull darned castle ’d been blown down over our heads.”

jerry timorously advanced, candle well out in front of him. its small radiance served dimly to disclose what seemed to be a large chamber, or even hall, high-roofed and spacious. its floor of stone flags was covered with dry mold. the walls were smoothed over with a gray coat of plastering, whole patches of which had here and there fallen, and more of which tumbled even now as they looked. they saw that this plastering had been decorated by zigzag, saw-toothed lines in three or four colors, now dulled and in places scarcely discernible. the room was irregularly shaped. at its narrower end was a big, roughly built fireplace, on the hearth of which lay ashes and some charred bits of wood, covered, like the stone itself, by a dry film of mold. the o’mahony held the candle under the flue. the way in which the flame swayed and pointed itself showed that the chimney was open.

cooking utensils, some of metal, some of pottery, but all alike of strange form, were bestowed on the floor on either side of the hearth. there was a single wooden chair, with a high, pointed back, standing against the wall, and in front of this lay a rug of cowskin, the reddish hair of which came off at the touch. beside this chair was a low, oblong wooden chest, with a lifting-lid curiously carved, and apparently containing nothing but rolls of parchment and leather-bound volumes.

at the other and wider end of the room was an archway built in the stone, and curtained by hangings of thick, mildewed cloth. the o’mahony drew these aside, and jerry advanced with the light.

in a little recess, and reaching from side to side of the arched walls, was built a bed of oaken beams, its top the height of a man’s middle. withered and faded straw lay piled on the wood, and above this both thick cloth similar to the curtains and finer fabrics which looked like silk. the candle shook in jerry’s hand, and came near to falling, at the discovery which followed.

on the bed lay stretched the body of a bearded and tonsured man, clad in a long, heavy, dark woolen gown, girt at the waist with a leathern thong—as strangely dried and mummified as are the dead preserved in st. michan’s vaults at dublin or in the bleikeller of the dom at bremen. the shriveled, tan-colored face bore a weird resemblance to that of the hereditary bard.

the o’mahony looked wonderingly down upon this grim spectacle, the while jerry crossed himself.

“guess there won’t be much use of callin’ a doctor for him,” said the master, at last.

then he backed away, to let the curtains fall, and yawned.

“i’m about tuckered out,” he said, stretching his arms. “let’s go up now an’ take somethin’ warm, and git to bed. we’ll keep mum about this place. p’rhaps—i shouldn’t wonder—it might come in handy for o’daly.”