LITMIR.BIZ

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which, with elevated voice and flashing eye, the boy was reading – the deep-toned syllables ringing through the low-vaulted chamber with a sweet but a solemn music. Contrasted with the fervid eloquence of the youth, was the mute wonder and rapt attention of the little fellow who listened. Astonishment, awe, and eager curiosity, blended together in that poor little face, every lineament of which trembled with excitement. If a high soaring imagination and elevated tone of thought were depicted in the one, the other, not less forcibly realized the mute and trembling eagerness of impassioned interest.

      The youth paused for a few seconds, and seemed to be reflecting over what he read, when the boy, in an accent broken with anxiety, cried out —

      “Read it, again, Master Herbert. Oh, read it again. It’s like the cry of the big stag-hound at Carrig-na-curra.”

      “It is the language of the gods, Mickey – finer and grander than ever man spoke,” replied the youth with fervour. “Listen to this, here;” and then, with solemn cadence he declaimed some twenty lines, while, as if the words were those of an incantation, the little fellow sat spellbound, with clasped hands and staring eye-balls gazing before him.

      “What does it mean, Master Herbert? – what is it?” said he, in panting eagerness.

      “It’s about a great hero, Mickey, that was preparing for battle. He was putting on his armour, a coat and a cap of steel, and he was belting on his sword.”

      “Yes, yes,” broke in the little fellow, “and wasn’t he saying how he’d murther and kill all before him?”

      “Bight enough,” said the youth, laughing. “You guessed it well.”

      “Ah, I knew it,” said the boy. “I saw how you clenched your fist, and your eyes wor shinin’ like sparks of fire, and I knew it was darin’ them he was, in the book there. What did he do after, Master Herbert? Just tell me that, sir.”

      “He went out in his chariot – ”

      “Say it like himself first, sir, av it’s plazin’ to ye,” said he, with a most imploring look of entreaty. “I do be glad to hear it out of the book.”

      The youth, thus entreated, resumed the volume, and read on for several minutes without stopping.

      “Oh, that’s grand!” said the boy, in a burst of enthusiasm. “‘Tis for all the world the way the thunder comes down the glen – moanin’ first, far off on the mountains, and then swellin’ into a big roar, and afterwards going clap! clap! like a giant clapping his hands. Did he kill the inimy, master dear?”

      “No, he was killed himself, and his body dragged over the battlefield.”

      “Wirra, wirra, wirra!” broke in the child, while he rung his hands, and burst forth into a torrent of tumultuous grief.

      “He was killed, Mickey, and listen to the lament of his friends for his death.”

      Scarcely had the youth read a few lines, when Sir Marmaduke, advancing a little farther, his shadow fell across the chamber. The youth sprang up at once, and came towards them. The flush of surprise – it might be, too, of shame – was on his features; but there was less of awkwardness than many might have exhibited in the manner of his address, as he said —

      “Father Luke is from home, sir. He has been sent for to Ballyvourney – ”

      “You are his relation, I presume?” said Sir Marmaduke, without letting him finish his speech.

      “I am his pupil,” replied the youth, with a tone in which offended pride was clearly confessed.

      “I ask pardon,” said the baronet hastily. “It was merely that I might convey my respectful greetings to the worthy father that I asked the question. Perhaps you will allow me to trespass so far upon you, and say, that Sir Marmaduke Travers has been here.”

      “While Sir Marmaduke was speaking, the youth’s eyes were fixed with a steadfast gaze on the features of the young girl, of whose presence till then he seemed unconscious. Fixed and earnest as his stare was, there was nothing in it of rudeness, still less of insult. It was the unequivocal expression of astonishment, the suddenly-awakened sense of admiration in one, on whom, till that very instant, beauty had shed no fascination. His eyes were bent upon her, as Sir Marmaduke thus finished speaking, and the old man smiled as he saw the wonder-struck admiration of the boy.

      “You will please to say Sir Marmaduke Travers,” repeated he once more, to recall the scattered senses of the youth.

      “And his daughter?” murmured the other, as he still continued to stare at her.

      “Yes, his daughter,” replied Sir Marmaduke, smiling. “May I ask if there be no shorter road back to ‘the Lodge,’ than that yonder? for I perceive it is full two hours later than I suspected.”

      “None for those on horseback. The mountain path lies yonder, but even on foot it is not without danger.”

      “Come, then, Sybella; let us lose no time. We must ride briskly, to reach home by day-light. We are late enough already.”

      “Too late, if you ride not very fast,” replied the youth. “The rain has fallen heavily on the mountains this afternoon. See that waterfall yonder. I crossed it dry-shod at day-break, and now, it is a cataract. This river rises rapidly, and in a single night’s rain I have seen the valley all one lake.”

      “What are we to do then?” cried Miss Travers, eagerly, for now she felt self-reproach at her refusal to take a groom along with them, and was vexed with herself, as well as uneasy for her father.

      “Keep the left of the valley till you reach the tall black rock they call ‘the pulpit’ – you know it, at least you must have seen it, as you came along – then cross the stream, it will be fordable enough by that time, and make the best of your way along under the cliffs, till you arrive at the broken bridge – the two buttresses, I mean. Re-cross the stream there, and gain the meadows, and in some hundred yards you are safe upon the high road. Away then; lose no more time, now; a minute is all the space between risk and safety;” and with these words he sprang forward, and lifted the young girl to her saddle, ere she had time or forethought to decline the service.

      “May we not know the name of our kind adviser?” asked Sir Marmaduke, as he mounted his horse.

      “Hark! there it comes!” said the youth, pointing upwards to the brow of a cliff, over which a leaping torrent had just bounded. “The mountain lakes are flooded, when Derrybahn is spouting. Away! away! if you care for safety.”

      They turned their horses’ heads as he spoke, and with a hasty “good bye” they spurred forwards. Short as the time had been since they travelled the same path, the scene was wonderfully changed; the placid stream that stole along, murmuring over its gravelly bed, now rushed onward with a yellow current streaked with white foam; the tiny rivulets that came in slender drops upon the road-side, were now become continuous streams of water, hurrying on to bear their tribute to the river. The sky itself was black and louring, resting midway on the mountains, or drifting past in heavy clouds, while no breeze was stirring below. The many torrents as they fell, filled the air with a low monotonous sound, like the noise of tree tops moved by a distant-storm.

      “I thought I heard a voice calling to us,” said Sir Marmaduke, as for the first time they slackened their pace, to clear several loose stones that obstructed the way – “did you hear it?”

      “I half thought so, too,” replied his daughter; “but I can see no one near. There it is again!”

      They halted and listened; but the swelling uproar of the waterfalls drowned every sound, and they spurred forward once more, fearing to loiter longer; yet, both as they went, thought they could trace the words, “come back, come back;” but from some strange dread of communicating fears that might not be real, neither told the other.

      “He said the left side of the valley; but surely he mistook: see how the water has gained here, and the opposite bank seems dry.”

      “Let us follow the advice, father,” cried Sybella, “we have no guidance save his; he could not – would not deceive us, Is it

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