Foyle, in your thravels; why, man, if you'd only just take a standin'-lep from the top of it, you'd never have an hour's trouble the longest day you'd live." "You may depend on that," replied the other, a little disturbed, but still with the same unmeaning smile. "Well, come and try your luck, any how," cried Jack, and he laid hold on Larry, who shrunk back in terror from his grasp. He still, however, affected to take all in good part, until Jack's manner became a little too serious to be misunderstood. The Tipperary-man then altered his tone. “Oh, musha, is it mad he is ?-Is it to kill me you mane? Oh, wurrah! wurrah! would you take the life of a poor wandherin' stranger?" "Come on; I tould you," exclaimed Jack, giving him a strenuous pull, while the darkening countenance of the other changed in a moment from its assumed simplicity, as he plunged his hand into his bosom, as if to draw forth a concealed weapon. Jack, however, did not perceive the action, but, on turning round, he saw a momentary fierceness about the stranger's eyes which belied the former almost idiotic expression of his face. That expression, however, was instantly resumed. Jack was considerably perplexed “Tell us now," he said, "honestly, are you a stranger, at all, at all ?" "Isn't a Tipperary man a stranger, when he's a hundred miles from his own country?" "Faith I don't know," said Jack, and he gazed for some moments on the lachrymose countenance of the other. "By my sowl I think I'll twist your neck, any way.” "Oha!" cried poor Larry, drawing back in horror. "You'll twist my neck! Oh, musha but you're the quare people in this country; faix myself wishes I was safe back in Tipperary. The poor stranger would thravel a long while there, young man, afore he'd get the ballyraggin you're neither ashamed nor afeard to give the crathur that doesn't know where he'll lay his head the morrow-night." Jack, whose heart was far too good for his understanding, felt the entire force of this accusation; and he and Larry eventually returned to the cabin, the best possible friends, neither enmity nor suspicion existing between them. The Munster-man had been some days an inmate of their hut, when he intimated to the Cumes keys his intention of proceeding on his way. This was the day following that of the interview detailed above. He expressed, on his departure, more than ordinary acknowledg ments for the hospitality he had enjoyed; but, though no civility was wanting, he did not receive the cordial God speed you" which usually cheers the departure of a guest. He was carefully directed in the way he was to proceed, but when he was gone, the father and son exchanged looks. "Jack," said the former, "I don't like his way!" "By dad, nor me, father," said Jack, with a serious expression. "Did you mind the look he gave out of the corner of his eye, when he said, and him on his step, I hope your sick neighbour will be mendin' soon?'" "Troth I did mind that, and it wasn't an honest look, Jack." By dad, father, I'll folly him!" No, no," cried the father as Jack was about to hasten after the suspicous stranger; “where's the use of that? we must only be careful how we go near the poor crathur beyant; and maybe we're wrongin' the gossoon," he added. "I know them Tipperary boys isn't like this country men in a power o' their ways, and I wouldn't have it said, avick, that we evened a bad thought to a poor thraveller far from home." "Well, father, your way of it," said the other; "but I'll tell you how we'll manage :-I'll take my oath he has'nt a notion where Barney is yet any how; so let you keep about the house this evening, when I slip away up the glen; and if you see him comin' back this road, you may just ax him, are you goin' far that way, neighbour,' says you; and then if it's foxin' he is, never fear but I'll settle him." On This was accordingly agreed upon; and towards evening Jack proceeded alone to the outlaw's retreat. reaching the spot he was surprised at hearing the robber talking in a low voice, but his astonishment was encreased when he entered the miserable abode, and found Barney sitting up in bed-the bandage removed--and the blood slowly trickling down his cheek. "Oh Barney, man, how is this you are ?" cried Jack; when the other turning his eyes on the speaker, he saw at once the progress his malady had made. A low muttering delirium had set in, and all Jack's enquiries were answered only by the incoherent rav ings of the sufferer. Jack was thun derstruck. He knelt down beside his unfortunate brother, and, as with trembling hands he bandaged up his head, his own mind was hardly less disturbed than his patient's. Indeed, his half uttered exclamations of anguish and remorse seemed to indicate a disordered intellect, but for the occasional look of dreadful consciousness, with which he gazed on the wretched object before him. The old man in the meantime was wandering about in the neighbour hood of his dwelling, oppressed with some unaccountable anxiety, and still haunted by the image of his suspicious guest. He sat down, at length, in the shadow of the glen, and was looking at the rivulet flowing by, when he was startled by the rapid tread of feet, and the next moment a party of police, conducted by the false Munster man, rushed past him, with fixed bayonets, up the glen. They appeared at the entrance of the hovel, while Jack was still gazing in stupid agony on the face of his brother. The former perceived at once, that resistance was vain; and resolving not to irritate by any useless opposition, he stood apart, and silently watched their proceedings. The outlaw half rose from his pallet, and gazing on the armed men with more collectedness than had hitherto appeared in his countenance, seemed to keep them at bay by the terror of his look. He was indeed a fearful object, as he lay within those ruined walls-his mind disordered his mad eyes glaring on his captors-his face rendered more ghastly by the red locks hanging about it-and all associated with the dark fame of the Ro pairé Ruadh. Jack did not move when the police proceeded to secure their captive, till one of the men producing a pair of handcuffs, was about to fasten them on the robber's wrists. On seeing his object, however, he stepped forward "Come out o' this," he said; "come out o' the way, my honest man; he's your prisoner, I allow; but sure man, you would'nt go put them irons on the crathur that's lyin' for death ?" "Secure the prisoner," shouted the individual in command, who stood with one or two of his party at the entrance of the hut. "O murdher," cried Jack; "it's not a wild baste that's in it. Ah misther dear, you wouldn't handcuff that poor mad crathur, that does'nt know what's happenin' him. Sure there's four o' yees-fine, by jabers!" he shouted, as he observed the grinning face of the stranger at the door. Jack moved slowly, and as if unintentionally towards the party. "There's five o' yees," he said; but with a less pleading tone, "agin' one unfortunate, that's not able to keep his standin' no more nor that hathen hound;" and ere the last words were uttered, and while the dishonest face of the spy was turned with a sneer on the speaker, Jack's iron fist fell right between his eyes, and the poor Tipperary man reeled, and staggered, and tumbled head foremost into a wilderness of briers. Jack was now secured as well as his brother. The former was shortly after discharged on security, while the latter was lodged of course in the county jail, where, having the usual medical attendance, he recovered in time from his wound, and the fever it had occasioned. From the night of the attack on Aby's cottage, Nelly and her lover had never met. Indeed, a meeting was now more cautiously avoided by Willy than it had formerly been by the girl herself. He no longer entertained a shadow of hope, and believing that he had sunk in her estimation, he even tried to banish the image which had been so long the idol of his life. That is a painful passage in the heart's history, when, from whatever motive, we first endeavour to forget the object of early love; and no wonder that poor Willy did not feel the same concern about his personal safety now, that he might have experienced when that love gave a universal brightuess to his life. After the Red Robber's capture, his mind was relieved from much of its anxiety; for he now considered his fate inevitable, and he was prepared for the worst. When the assizes drew near, however, and he was still unsuspected, he began to reflect, that as Barney had some notions of honour and generosity, and as he could have no object, beyond the gratification of revenge, in betraying him, his secret was probably safe in the robber's bosom. He was strengthened in his opinion on discovering that even Jack was ignorant of his having been concerned in the outrage. As soon as he was so far convinced of Barney's fidelity, he felt that he was bound in all honour to make some effort for the safety of a man who stood true to him, and, what ever his motive was, had forfeited his life in his service. He resolved, therefore, to make an effort for the robber's rescue, if by any means it could be accomplished, no matter at what risk or cost to himself. He would most probably, have found it impracticable but for an accident which singularly favoured his design. Willy had been absent at a fair in a neighbouring county, and the day after his return, he went across the river for the purpose of holding a conference with Jack Cumeskey. Jack was engaged in repairing the banks of the little rivulet, when his friend and rival approached. God bless the work, Jack." “And you likewise," replied the The not a word that's strange, Willy-barrin' that I'm tould there's no chance." Faith, there's no chance at the thrial, you may depind; but there might be a chance for all that." 66 "Ah no, Willy," replied the other, despondingly. You wish us well I know, but it isn't the Ropaire Ruadh need think of pardon." “Well, but did you never hear tell of a man follyin' his own way, just takin' a spree into his head, and givin' leg bail to the whole kit o' them?" "Oh God help you, is that what you're at? Why man," he continued, leaning on his spade; "if you'd only seen the black hole of a place he's locked up in, and the load of chains that's on him, now you'd be surprised." "No matther for that, Jack, the like was done afore." "Ay, that's thrue; but it is'nt every one they keep as close as Barney; you know the name he has, Willy, makes them afeard." “Oh, of coorse," said the other, "it's nathral to suppose; but I'll tell you a sacret, Jack, and troth myself does'nt care a power whether you keep it a sacret or no-only for Barney's sake, it's betther to keep it for a start anyway--but it's what I'm goin' to tell you, if every man had his due the Ropairé's not the only one would be lyin' in could irons to-night." "By my song," said Jack, “I b'lieve you; faix that's the sacret the world knows." 66 Well, but Jacky, do you mind on the night of the robbery, the chap that his face was'nt blackened like the rest ?", "Ay, him that saved ould Aby's life?" "The very one; and did Barney never tell who that ruffan was ?" you "No, he only said he acted like a man; and though he'd have stuck him that night if he could, it was one thing he was thankful for that he had'nt his blood on his soul, any way. And I hope and pray, said he, that he may never come to my end, as I trust he. wont." "Did he say that?" cried the young man, his countenance lighted up with admiration and gratitude. "Troth he did say that, sure enough." 46 Well, then it's what I think, no man ever lost by havin' a friendly heart yet; and now I'll tell you the sacret out and out-it was me was in it that night, and," he added in a lower tone, "it was for the daughter we went." "Go to God!" cried the other, thunderstruck with the intelligence. 66 Och, you dont think I'd tell you a lie, that'll may be put my own neck in a halter-but quit starin' at me, I say, and listen to what I have to tell you. We must save Barney by hook or by crook, that's all about it." 66 Willy," cried the other, hardly recovered from his astonishment, "that's beyant us, I doubt." But I'm full sure it's not beyant us, and I have a notion how it may be done." "You have, Willy!" I have, in troth, Jack, but there's danger in it of coorse." "An alibi ?" whispered Jack with a doubtful look. 66 No," said the other, "I wouldn't perjure my sowl to save my own or any other man's life; but there's a better way than that, and an honester way, and listen now and I'll tell you what it is. When I was in the fair of Thurles the other day, I sees a man loiterin' about, quite careless-like, till at last he kem over to where myself was standin' with the cattle, and he begins handlin' them as if he was for buyin.' Them's purty bastes, God bless them,' he says. "Ay,' says I, 'there's worse on the street; and with that we looked at each other, and he says "I think,' says he, I seen you pected who it was the first sight I got of him, and when he said that, I knowed him at wanst. "And who was it?" said Jack. Faith, it was just one of Barney's boys, that was with us that unlucky night. So he comes over to me"You had a hard rowl,' says he, 'that night with the Ropairé Ruadh. By my sowl,' he says, 'young man, I'd sooner be friends nor foes with you, for I never seen one could give the captain his own afore.' "Well, well,' says I, lettin' on, 'the captain, as you call him,' says I, has met his match this turn anyway. It's a strong guard,' says I, the law can't break.' 666 Ay, says he, poor fellow, I hear he's back in the ould lodgin's; but wait awhile,' says he, he was there afore, and, troth, myself was there afore, more nor wanst; and I have a notion that for all he's under lock and irons, Barney was never born to sthretch a rope.' 66 6 Oh, by my faix,' says I, 'it's a folly to talk. If he had as many lives as a Plutarch, he's done now.' "Well, may be so,' said he, and then he mused for a bit. Certainly,' said he, he has a worse chance than ever, for he had still them would stand by him, always till now.' 666 Many's the time, Jacky, since Barney was taken, I was wondherin' with myself what could be done to save him. So when the fellow said this, I thought he might maybe be a good man to put us on some way of doin'; so I axed him would he be plaised to come in and take a dhrop of somethin'; and I calls another boy that was with me to keep an eye to the cows, and in we went. Well, if we did, afther a power of talk, and me findin' that he had a good wish for Barney still, we begun considherin' about a rescue; and at long last here's what we agreed was best to be done. One of the jailers, you see, is brother's son to this chap's father; and as he was one o' Barney's men himself, he thinks he might be willin' enough to sarve him yet. 666 Any way,' says he, I know he'd do a trifle to obleege me; and I have a right to know it,' he says, for I had some dalin's with him lately-it's no matther what it was about,' says he, but I had my own notions, Jacky, what it was about-but,' says he, he allowed me to stand by the boys, for that he was never sorry but once for lavin' them. So I think,' he says, if In troth you'll not, Jacky," replied the other; "and if Nelly has any likin' for you, you may take her with my heart and good-will. I'll never be a hindrance to you or any man again." Och, do you hear him now?" cried Jack. "You'd make me believe it's all over with yees." Faith, it is Jacky," said the other, with ill-assumed carelessness. you nor ever; and you think it yourself, Willy, for all your talkin'." “Oh, I do," said the unhappy lover in a low and bitter tone, "she has a good right; but any way, Jacky, mind all I tould you." "I will," said Jack, "and I thank God and you that Baruey's not beyant his chances yet." As the assizes approached there was a considerable degree of interest felt about the fate of the Ropaire Ruadh. As far as he alone was concerned, there was very little sympathy for his misfortunes, but the neighbours uniformly endeavoured to afford comfort and consolation to the unhappy old man, who it was evident could not long bear up against the sorrows which clouded his age. Jack had intimated to him the possibility of a rescue, but he at once rejected such an idea. He felt that Barney's fate was merited, and he would not compromise the safety of a more worthy son, in a desperate effort to prolong for a time his guilty career. On the day previous to the appointed meeting between Willy and his associates, Nelly M'Evoy was sitting, pale and silent, at her wheel, whose melancholy sound seemed the fittest music for a mourner's heart. Her father had never mentioned to her his suspicions of O'Brien's guilt; but there had been latterly a coldness in his manner towards her, peculiarly painful, as she had sacrificed every other feeling to her duty to him. She was a tender-hearted girl; and now that her mother was gone, and that her filial devotion received so poor a return, she felt more bitterly the loss of one, in whose love she could have reposed for ever with full and happy confidence. She understood, besides, that Willy O'Brien was about to leave the country; and the intelligence of this event was the last and strongest test of her resolution. While reflecting on her hopeless lot, and beginning for the first time to consider whether her vow was absolutely aad unconditionally binding, her lover entered the cottage. The girl started-she had not seen him since that fatal night-and while her eyes filled, a fond and embarrassed expression gave a singular charm to her countenance. The young man was still more embarrassed. He advanced, how ever, and with a slight tremor in his voice, he said, "I hope, Nelly, it's no offence to come and spake to you, for the last time." The girl held down her head—she endeavoured to reply, but her voice was choked. Willy bit his lip, till the blood almost appeared, as he walked up and down for some moments; and then standing before the girl "Nelly M'Evoy," he said, "it's a long day since we first met; and I can say now, before Him that hears me, I never from that hour had a thought but for your good. I turned villain in the end, I know, but afore we part for ever, I came to ax your forgiveness; and," he added, unable to restrain his emotion, "to give you back the promise you made me when we were both younger than now, and a dale happier than we'll ever be again.” The tears fell like rain from Nelly's eyes at this renunciation of all their hopes. 66 Willy," she cried, "you needn't give me back that promise. If I can't be yours, I'm never goin' to be another's." A gleam of joy passed over Willy's face, but it was only momentary. He remembered that her refusal, though it assured him anew of her attachment, was of little avail to their happiness now. 66 No," he cried, with some bitterness of tone, "where's the use of bein' bound to one that will never see you more? Take back your promise, Nelly, and my heart's blessin' go with you, and with him that will love you when I'm far away." The girl turned her eyes on her lover, and there was something of reproach mingled with their sorrow. "I knew," she said, in firm but tender accents, "there was throuble afore us, but I never thought to hear you spake that word. I never said the like to you, Willy, though if I was dyin' this minute, I could say I love you as thruly as the heart of woman ever loved afore." "I know you do, darlint,” cried the youth, clasping her in his arms. “I know you do, achora machree; and, och, it's a comfort," he added, "that there's one'll think well of me, when I'm an outcast on the world." He folded her to his bosom in an agony of despair. The grass is green above her," cried the girl wildly, "the grass is green above her, and I darn't break my vow. Oh God forgive you, father, it's the sore hearts your pride has left us this day And sore and sorrowful were the |