the fortress it helped to defend. The point from which the martial strain seemed to arise was fully commanded by the end window of the long gallery; and thither the lady of Ormonde repaired, with a more rapid step than was habitual to her.

Arrived at the window, she flung open its casements, and gazed directly downward. Two figures only met her view, those of the individuals whom she expected to find in the gallery on her return from the chapel; namely, Simon Seix, the half-witted foster-brother of her only son (and only child), and that only son himself, mounted on Simon's shoulders, who galloped, pranced, and curveted along the terraplane of the wall.

"The poor born-natural!" she muttered; "again will he disobey my commands not to leave the castle with his young lord, and leave it to play such antics upon that perilous wall? Doubtless it was he who mimicked the sound of the trumpet which so challenged us."

The lady recollected Simon's talent for imitating the tones of all the instruments of music he had ever heard played, as well, indeed, as the voices of many animals; and even at the moment her surmise was confirmed, for, after he had mimicked the loud neighing and snorting of a battle-charger, as an accompaniment to a devious and seemingly perilous caracole, she saw and heard him blow a second trumpet blast through the hollow of his hand, which might well be mistaken for martial music. It was a strain of victory and triumph; and Simon seemed enamoured of his own performance, for he prolonged the sounds, as though he would never end them, until, at last, they suddenly broke off in a ludicrous cadence as the overmastering shrillness of his lady's whistle cut them short.

Turning up his large gray eyes to the open window far above him, he saw the figure of his offended mistress half bending from it. Her arm was raised, her hand clenched, and she stamped her foot as she signed to him to reenter the castle. The Lord Thomas-so was called the little boy of seven or eight years on his back-looked up also; but while Simon assumed a face of the utmost fright and affliction, he only laughed merrily, in answer to his mother's signs; and, resisting his foster-brother's attempts to place him on his own feet, obliged Simon still to bear him on his shoulders.

In a few moments the little Lord Thomas appeared before his mother in the gallery. Her first look towards him was one of grave reprehension; but when, presuming on her

VOL. II.

love, as well as prompted by his own love for her, the boy came bounding forward, the stately lady's brow relaxed, and, thinking of his father, she opened her arms to receive him.

"But where tarries Simon Seix, boy? With him, at least, the overgrown adviser and contriver of all thine antics, I shall call a strict reckoning."

Lord Thomas made a roguish signal to his mother, and then composing his features, spoke in a voice of mock solemnity, as he turned towards the door, "Enter, Simon, and face my lady mother."

The ill-contrived figure of Simon, short, thick, and bandy-legged, dragged itself through the doorway, and halted a few paces past the threshold. His long arms dropped at his sides; his jaw fell; his crooked eyebrows became elevated; his heavy-lidded eyes turned sideways upon the floor; and altogether he presented a very ludicrous caricature of repentance, fear, and selfabasement, of which, however, one-half was only affected; for, with his young lord for an advocate, he really apprehended no grave consequences.

"So, knave, neither your respect for my commands, nor your love and fear of the lord of Ormonde, exposed at this moment to utmost peril, can keep you quietly within the castle with Lord Thomas, as the time requires?"

Simon whiningly, yet with a certain sly expression, replied, "I wot not, gracious lady, wherefore, at this time, aught is required from my Lord Thomas, or from me, his poor, simple servitor, save the bearing which bespeaks joyousness and trouble past.'

"And why, sirrah, wot you not?"

Because, by this hour of the day our good battle hath surely been fought and won, and a Botiller's foot again planted on the neck of a Desmond," answered Simon, confidently.

Say you so?" continued the lady, her eyes brightening; "and whence come your tidings, sir?"

"From our common thought of what ever must be the fortunes of the Ormonde against his present foe, lady," said the reputed fool; and while he spoke he gave his noble fosterbrother an anxious sign to second his interested sycophancy, on which the boy answered:—

"True, Simon; and it would ill become the Ormonde's only son to show by the wearing of a sad face a doubt of his own gallant father."

"List, excellent lady!" adjured Simon, "his nobleness repeats the very words which drew me from the castle by his side."

"Peace, knave!" said the lady, her voice and manner suddenly changing into great 43

energy as she heard sounds as of the hurried lowering of the drawbridge. "Nay, by my holy saint!" she went on rapidly, while a burst of wailing voices reached her from the hall below, "here have I been sinfully bandying words with an idiot at the moment that I should have been on my bended knees to Heaven! Who comes to greet us? who waits below?" she cried, pacing towards a side-door of the gallery, through which she was about to pass when arrested by the sound of many feet. She paused, and grew pale. Presently old John Seix, the father of Simon, clad in complete mail, and looking jaded and agitated, presented himself before her, while the few servants left in the castle crowded behind him. Her eyes met his, and with eager gaze and compressed lips she motioned him to speak. "The noble Ormonde lives, dear lady," answered the old man; and there he paused. "But the battle is lost, John Seix?" she said, apparently with calmness. Evasively he replied that his lord, in quick retreat upon Kilkenny, close pressed by the Desmond, had despatched him to bid his lady summon the town's people, that some of them might help to garrison the castle, and others hasten to join his army at Green's-bridge, a mile up the river, where he purposed making a last brave stand against the foe.

"All shall be done," answered his lady; and thereupon despatched one domestic to the authorities of the town, over whom the house of Ormonde held despotic sway, and another to the tower, to ring the alarm. 'John Seix," she resumed, walking up and down the gallery, "however may betide this last struggle, I give way to no fears for the dear and precious life of the Ormonde; be he a prisoner at the present moment, a Desmond hath never lived who dares to harm a hair of his head."

"Hark, lady, to the noise which comes faintly down the river," said, to her surprise, Simon Seix, the half-fool, speaking seriously and steadily, as he gracelessly moved from a corner in which he had hitherto been standing unnoticed, though, perhaps, not without noticing all he saw and heard, and edging round by the wall, approached the end window of the gallery.

"Ay, and so it does!" exclaimed his mistress, hurrying to the point of observation before him; "and, for the nonce, Simon, well have you spoken."

She gained the open window. Quick as a flash her glance shot at once up the river to the bridge, and there fixed itself. The October ning began to close in, sunless and heavy;

yet it was not so dark as to prevent her from distinguishing the general features of things at some distance.

The faint shouting and uproar still came down the Nore; but nothing of moment as yet occurred upon the bridge. In a very short time, however, the tumult growing louder, she saw a large body of armed men pour over it in disorder; some rallied at the country side of the bridge, some between its battlements, and some at its town side. The lady of Ormonde knew that these were her husband's men hotly pursued by the Desmond, and now preparing to make their last stand. Much time was not allowed to prepare them; nor did they long resist the fierce attack of their assailants.

Old Seix, watching her from the interior of the gallery, needed nothing but her action, and the expression of her countenance, to tell him the issue of the fray, and to impart to his own bosom the successive emotions which agitated hers.

"All is over, lady of Ormonde?" demanded Seix.

It is, John," she answered; "our base hinds fly like the poor deer they are only fit to tend, scattered and wild, over the distant country."

❘ "Do the Desmonds pursue?" again asked the house-steward.

"Gallantly!" replied the lady; "and all in a body-not a man stays on the bridge." "Then we have some pause, dear mistress, since none of them hasten this way."

"Ay, I grant you, if our townsmen enter the castle in time. But where linger they? false churls! Begone, thou, John Seix, and assay to rouse their sluggish spirit! But nohold an instant-it may-it may be so!" She interrupted herself by speaking these last words in a joyous, hopeful tone, as she again looked up the river.

"The Ormondes, lady?" questioned the old

man.

"By Heaven! I do believe it is, John Seix. Some five or seven mounted men have parted from the confused body of pursuers and pursued beyond the bridge-and now regain itnow spur fiercely over it-and one keeps ahead of the others-and now I lose him and them as they turn into the town. Quick, quick, John Seix, and mount the turret over the grand gate-thither they repair, whoever they be quick, old man! I wait you here."

The house-steward did as he was commanded. Shortly after he had gained his place in the turret seven horsemen galloped up the ascent from the near end of the town, led by one of

noble bearing. But as it was now deep twilight, and the riders kept their vizors down, he could not, at a first glance, tell whether they were friends or foes. Coming nearer, he descried a banner which they bore, and his heart beat with joy, for it was the banner of the Ormonde. To his challenge, as they drew rein before the gate, they gave the gladdening pass-word; and he hastened from the turret to admit them.

Meanwhile his lady impatiently awaited his return to the gallery. Leaving the window, she threw herself into a seat, quickly arose, paced the gallery, stopped, listened, took her son's hand, and proceeded rapidly to the door.

She had again heard the unbarring of the gate, and the lowering of the drawbridge. Now she distinguished hasty steps ascending through the castle to the gallery. A few paces from the door she stood still: a knight clad in full armour entered. In height and figure he resembled her husband; but his vizor was down. Upon that she fixed her eye. An instant of silence, when the knight, slowly raising his hand, put up his vizor-it was the Desmond!

She did not scream or start, for her heart had misgiven her, and spared her a surprise which might have betrayed the heroic lady into some show of weakness which she would have scorned.

"I know you, Desmond," she said, endeavouring to look down his deep and fearful stare; "ay, and I knew you before you revealed yourself."

"It is well, madam, that we can meet thus calmly, for it hits the fashion of the time, and the change of—”

"Of what?" she interrupted, almost sternly; "the change of what? what change? Think you, Desmond, that, for an hour's mishap, the first he ever knew from your hand, at least, the lord of Ormonde, or I, his wife, yield to you? think you our spirit bends or snaps so soon? think you that the cowards who fled from you on yonder bridge are a tithe of the Ormonde's loyal vassals and fighting men? or, did he stand alone to-night, in his own wide lands, think you he has no other friends to take his part?"

"What other friends?" asked Desmond. "Hark in your ear-true English friends! ay, Desmond, and with one who loves the Ormonde to lead them on-with England's king to bid them on!" she continued, exultingly. "He lands to-day at Waterford."

"Hush!" cried Desmond, as he perceived that Simon, the natural, had drawn near them

so cautiously, that his steps were not heard. "Now, sirrah, do you dare to pry into the discourse of your lady and myself?"

Simon humbly denied any such bold and sinful design; and reproved and chidden, he withdrew, while Desmond went on with what he had to say.

"Lady, 'tis passing strange I should not have heard of this: but, let the king be at Waterford, I shall have loyal friends to wait on him there by day-dawn; you can have

none

"The Ormonde may think of having some there before day-dawn, Desmond.” "Alack the day, lady!" said Desmond, sighing.

"Ha!" she cried, receding from him, "when you put on that seeming grief, there must be a black tale for me to hear, in good sooth! Speak, man! Have you passed your coward knife through his noble heart?"

The Ormonde forced me to the field, lady, in just defence of my bounds of lands: but I bore him no ill blood; his life I never sought; and, had I seen it threatened, would have saved it: but the last melée was fierce upon the bridge, and he fell ere I knew that-"

"Dead! my Ormonde dead?" she cried, clasping her hands, and fixing her eyes on Desmond.

"I bore his banner to your gate; please you to see it in the hall? Could he have drawn living breath when that was done?"

"I think no," she answered; "and you have reached him, then? And now, Desmond, 'tis in your mind that all looks clear for the fulfilling of an old oath." Stern despair was in her tones as she uttered these words.

"Sweet lady, pass we that worthless matter -an error of mere youth, and nought besides unless we add an outbreaking of passionate love, as pure and true as

"Insolent fool as well as villain!" again interrupted the lady. "Where are you, boy? Come hither to my side, and hold fast by my hand-hither, hither! ha! as she turned round, and looked towards the end of the now darkened apartment. "My child hath left the gallery-with his poor fool, too! and left it for what company!-for what chances! Desmond, I leave you to go seek him-only aid me in the task; and promise not to part us when I find my boy, and I will kneel down to bless you."

Terrible fears of Desmond's designs began to press on her mind, and she scarce knew what she said. Her unwelcome visitor earnestly promised to do as she requested him;