—The Mountain Mass

Reilly and the bishop traversed a wild and remote part of the country, in which there was nothing to be seen but long barren wastes, over which were studded, here and there, a few solitary huts; upon its extremity, however, there were some houses of a more comfortable description, the habitations of middling farmers, who possessed small farms at a moderate rent. As they went along, the prelate addressed Reilly in the following-terms:

“Mr. Reilly,” said he, “I would advise you to get out of this unhappy country as soon as you can.”

“My lord,” replied Reilly, who was all candor and truth, and never could conceal his sentiments, at whatever risk, “I cannot think of leaving the country, let the consequences be what they may. I will not trouble your lordship with my motives, because they are at variance with your character and religious feelings; but they are not at variance with religion or morality. It is enough to say that I wish to prevent a beautiful and innocent girl from being sacrificed. My lord, you know too well that persecution is abroad; and when I tell you that, through the influence which this admirable creature has over her father—who, by the way, has himself the character of a persecutor—many Catholics have been protected by him, I am sure you will not blame me for the interest which I feel in her fate. In addition to this, my lord, she has been a ministering angel to the Catholic poor in general, and has contributed vast sums, privately, to the relief of such of our priesthood as have been brought to distress by the persecution of the times. Nay, she has so far influenced her father that proscribed priests have found refuge and protection in his house.”

The bishop, on hearing this, stood, and taking off his hat, raised his right hand, and said: “May the blessing of the Almighty God rest upon her, and guard her from the snares of those who would make her unhappy! But, Reilly, as you say you are determined, if possible, to rescue her from ruin, you know that if you go at large in your usual dress you will unquestionably be taken. I advise you, then, to disguise yourself in such a way as that you will not, if possible, be known.”

“Such, my lord, is my intention—but who is this? what—eh—yes, \'tis Fergus O\'Reilly, a distant and humble relation of mine who is also in disguise. Well, Fergus, where have you been for some time past?”

“It would be difficult to tell that, God knows; I have been everywhere—but,” he added in a whisper, “may I speak freely?”

“As free as the wind that blows, Fergus.”

“Well, then, I tell you that Sir Robert Whitecraft has engaged me to be on the lookout for you, and said that I would be handsomely rewarded if I could succeed in enabling the scoundrel to apprehend you.”

“But how did that come about, Fergus?”

“Faith, he met me one day—you see I have got a bag at my back—and taking me for a beggarman, stopped me on the road. \'I say, you, poor man,\' says he, \'what\'s your name?\' \'Paddy M\'Fud,\' says I—\'I belong to the M\'Fuds of Ballymackknockem.\' \'You\'re a beggar,\' says he, \'and travel from place to place about the country.\' \'It\'s true enough, your honor,\' I replied, \'I travel about a good deal, of coorse, and it\'s only that way that I get my bit and sup.\' \'Do you know the notorious villain called Willy Reilly\'?\' \'Not by sight, your honor, but I have often heard of him. Wasn\'t he in love with the beautiful Cooleen Bawn, Squire Folliard\'s daughter?\' \'That\'s not the question between us,\' he said, \'but if you enable me to catch Reilly, I will give you twenty pounds.\' \'Well, your honor,\' says I, \'lave the thing to myself; if he is to be had it\'ll go hard but I\'ll find him.\' \'Well, then,\' says he, \'if you can tell me where he is I will give you twenty pounds, as I said.\' \'Well, sir,\' says I, \'I expect to hear from you; I am not sure he\'s in the country—indeed they say he is not—but if he is, I think I\'ll find him for you;\' and so we parted.”

“Fergus,” said Reilly, “I feel that a disguise is necessary. Here is money to enable you to purchase one. I do not know where you may be able to find me; but go and buy me a suit of frieze, rather worn, a dingy caubeen hat, coarse Connemara stockings, and a pair of clouted brogues; some course linen, too; because the fineness of my shirts, should I happen to be apprehended, might betray me. Leave them with widow Buckley, and I can find them there.”

It was so arranged. Fergus went on his way, as did Reilly and the bishop. The latter conducted him to the house of a middling farmer, whose son the bishop had sent, at his own expense, to a continental college. They were both received with the warmest affection, and, so far as the bishop was concerned, with every expression of the deepest gratitude. The situation was remote, and the tumult of pursuit did not, reach them. Reilly privately forced upon the farmer compensation for their support, under a solemn injunction that he should not communicate that circumstance to the bishop, and neither did he. They were here, then, comparatively safe, but still Reilly dreaded the active vigilance of his deadly enemy, Sir Robert Whitecraft. He felt that a disguise was absolutely necessary, and that, without it, he might fall a sacrifice to the diabolical vengeance of his powerful enemy. In the course of about ten days after he had commissioned Fergus to procure him the disguise, he resolved to visit widow Buckley, in order to make the necessary exchange in his apparel. He accordingly set out—very foolishly we must admit—in open day, to go to the widow\'s house. The distance was some miles. No appearance of danger, or pursuit, was evident, until he came to the sharp angle of the road, where he was met by four powerful constables, who, on looking at him, immediately surrounded him and made him prisoner. Resistance was impossible; they were well armed, and he was without any weapon with which he could defend himself.

“We have a warrant for your apprehension, sir,” said one of them.

“Upon what grounds?” replied Reilly. “I am conscious of no offence against the laws of the land. Do you know who I am? and is my name in your warrant?”

“No, but your appearance answers completely to the description given in the Hue and Cry. Your dress is the same as that of the robber, and you must come with us to the sheriff whom you have robbed. His house is only a quarter of a mile from this.”

They accordingly proceeded to the sheriff\'s house, whom they found at home. On being informed that they had captured the man “who had robbed him, he came downstairs with great alacrity, and in a spirit replete with vengeance against the robber. The sheriff, however, was really a good-natured and conscientious man, and would not lend himself to a dishonorable act, nor had he ever been known to do so. When he appeared, Reilly addressed him:

“I am here, sir,” said he, “under a charge of having robbed you. The charge against me is ridiculous. I am a gentleman, and never was under the necessity of having recourse to such unlawful means of raising money.”

“Well,” replied the sheriff, “your dress is precisely the same as the fellow wore when he robbed me. But I feel confident that you are not the man. Your hair is black, his was red, and he had large red whiskers. In the excitement and agitation of the moment I forgot to mark the villain\'s features distinctly; but I have since thought over the matter, and I say that I would now know him if I saw him again. This, however,” he added, turning—to the constables, “is not the person who robbed and beat me down from my horse.”

“But he may be Willy Reilly, sir, for all that; and you know the reward that is offered for his apprehension.”

“I know Willy Reilly,” replied the sheriff, “and I can assure you that this gentleman is not Willy Reilly. Go, now, continue your pursuit. The robber lurks somewhere in the neighborhood. You know the reward; catch him, and you shall have it.” The constables departed; and after they had gone the sheriff said, “Mr. Reilly, I know you well; but I would scorn to avail myself of the circumstance which has thus occurred. I am aware of the motive which urges Sir Robert Whitecraft against you—so is the whole country. That penurious and unprincipled villain is thirsting for your blood. Mr. Hastings, however, has a rod in pickle for him, and he will be made to feel it in the course of time. The present administration is certainly an anti-Catholic one; but I understand it is tottering, and that a more liberal one will come in. This Whitecraft has succeeded in getting some young profligate Catholics to become Protestants, who have, consequently, ousted their fathers out of their estates and property; younger sons, who, by this act of treachery, will get the estates into their own possession. The thing is monstrous and unnatural. But let that pass; Whitecraft is on our trail in all directions; beware of him, I say; and I think, with great respect to you, Mr. Reilly, it is extremely foolish to go abroad in your usual apparel, and without disguise.”

“Sir,” replied Reilly, “I cannot express, as I would wish, my deep gratitude to you for your kindness and forbearance. That Sir Robert Whitecraft is thirsting for my blood I know. The cause of that vengeance is now notorious.”

“You know Mr. Hastings, Mr. Reilly?”

“Intimately, sir.”

“He took your property in his own name?”

“He did, sir; he purchased it in his own name. The property was hereditary property, and when my title to it, in point of law, as a Catholic, was questioned, and when one of my family, as a Protestant, put in his claim for it, Mr. Hastings came in as the purchaser, and ousted him. The money was supplied by me. The moment, however, that I found Whitecraft was after me, I immediately surrendered the whole of it back to him; so that Sir Robert, in burning what he considered my property, in fact burned Mr. Hastings.”

“And I have reason to know, Mr. Reilly, that it will be the blackest act of his guilty life. This, however, I mention to you in the strictest confidence. Keep the secret, for if it transpired the scoundrel might escape from the consequences of his own cruelty and oppression. In the meantime, do you take care of yourself—keep out of his way, and, as I said, above all things, procure a disguise. Let the consequences be what they may, I don\'t think the beautiful Cooleen Baum will ever marry him.”

“But,” replied Reilly, “is there no risk of compulsion by her father?”

“Why, I must confess there is,” replied the sheriff; “he is obstinate and headstrong, especially if opposed, and she will find it necessary to oppose him—and she will oppose him. I myself have had a conversation with her on the subject, and she is firm as fate against such a union; and I will tell you more, Reilly—it was she who principally engaged me to protect you as far as I could, and so I shall, you may rest assured of it. I had only to name you a few minutes ago, and your fate was sealed. But, even if she had never spoken to me on the subject, I could not fend myself to the cruel plots of that villain. God knows, in consequence of my official situation, I am put upon tasks that are very painful to me; levying fines from men who are harmless and inoffensive, who are peaceable members of society, who teach the people to be moral, well-conducted, and obedient to the laws, and who do not themselves violate them. Now,” he added, “be advised by me, and disguise yourself.”

“Sir,” said Reilly, “your sentiments do you honor; I am this moment on my way to put on a disguise, which has been procured for me. I agree with you and other friends that it would be impossible for me to remain in the country in my own natural aspect and dress. Allow me, before I go, to express my sense of your kindness, and believe me I shall never forget it.”

“The disguise, above all things,” said the sheriff, smiling and holding out his hand. Reilly seized it with a warm pressure; they bid each other farewell, and so they parted.

Reilly then wound his way to the cottage of Mrs. Buckle, but not by the public road. He took across the fields, and, in due time, reached her humble habitation. Here he found the disguise, which his friend Fergus had provided-a half-worn frieze coat, a half-worn caubeen, and a half-worn pair of corduroy breeches, clouted brogues, and Connemara stockings, also the worse for the wear, with two or three coarse shirts, in perfect keeping with, the other portion of the disguise.

“Well, Mrs. Buckley,” said he, “how have you been since I saw you last?”

“Oh, then, Mr. Reilly,” said she, “it\'s a miracle from God that you did not think of stopping here! I had several visits from the sogers who came out to look for you.”

“Well, I suppose so, Mrs. Buckley; but it was one comfort that they did not find me.”

“God be praised for that!” replied the poor woman, with tears in her eyes; “it would a\' broken my heart if you had been catched in my little place.”

“But, Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly, “were there any plain clothes left for me here?”

“Oh, indeed there was, sir,” she replied, “and I have them safe for you; but, in the meantime, I\'ll go outside, and have an eye about the country, for somehow they have taken it into their heads that this would be a very likely place to find you.”

While she was out, Reilly changed his dress, and in a few minutes underwent such a metamorphosis that poor Mrs. Buckley, on reentering the house, felt quite alarmed.

“Heavenly Father! my good man, where did you come from? I thought I left Mr. —” here she stopped, afraid to mention Reilly\'s name.

“Don\'t be alarmed, Mrs. Buckley,” said Reilly; “I am only changed in outward appearance; I am your true friend still; and now accept this for your kindness,” placing money in her hand.

“I can\'t, Mr. Reilly; you are under the persecutions, and will want all the money you have to support yourself. Didn\'t the thieves of the devil burn you out and rob you, and how can you get through this wicked world without money—keep it yourself, for I don\'t want it.”

“Come, come, Mrs. Buckley, I have money enough; you must take this; I only ask you to conceal these clothes in some place where the hell-hounds of the law can\'t find them. And now, good-by, Mrs. Buckley; I shall take care that, whatever may happen me, you shall not be disturbed out of your little cabin and your garden.”

The tears ran down the poor old woman\'s cheeks, and Reilly left her sobbing and crying behind him. This indeed was an eventful day to him, Strong in the confidence of his disguise, he took the public road, and had not gone far when he met a party of Sir Robert Whitecraft\'s. To fly would have been instant ruin; he accordingly commenced an old Irish song at the very top of his lungs. Sir Robert Whitecraft was not himself of the party, but scarcely any individual was met by them whom they did not cross-examine.

“Hallo, my good fellow,” said the leader of the party, “what is that you\'re singin\'?”

Reilly stared at him like a man who was sorely puzzled; “Ha neil bearla agum;” that is, “I have no English.”

“Here, Connor, you can speak Irish; sift this able-bodied tyke.”

A conversation in that language then took place between them which reflected everlasting honor upon Connor, who, by the way, was one of Reilly\'s tenants, but himself and his progenitors were Protestants for three generations. He was a sharp, keen man, but generous and honorable, and after two or three glances at our hero, at once recognized him. This he could only intimate by a wink, for he knew that there were other persons there who spoke Irish as well as either of them. The dialogue, however, was not long, neither was it kind-hearted Connor\'s wish that it should be so. He was asked, however, if he knew any thing about Willy Reilly, to which he replied that he did not, only by all accounts he had left the country. This, indeed, was the general opinion.

“This blockhead,” said Connor, “knows nothing about him, only what he has heard; he\'s a pig dealer, and is now on his way to the fair of Sligo; come on.”

They passed onwards, and Reilly resumed his journey and his song.

On reaching the farmer\'s house where he and the bishop lodged, the unhappy prelate felt rather annoyed, at the appearance of a stranger, and was about to reprove their host for his carelessness in admitting such persons.

“What do you want here, my good man?” inquired the farmer.

“Do you wish to say anything to me?” asked the bishop.

“A few words,” replied Reilly; but, on consideration, he changed his purpose of playing off a good-humored joke on his lordship and the farmer. For the melancholy prelate he felt the deepest compassion and respect, and apprehended that any tampering with his feelings might be attended with dangerous consequences to his intellect. He consequently changed his purpose, and added, “My lord, don\'t you know me?”

The bishop looked at him, and it was not without considerable scrutiny that he recognized him.

In the meantime the farmer, who had left the room previous to this explanation, and who looked upon Reilly as an impostor or a spy, returned with a stout oaken cudgel, exclaiming, “Now, you damned desaver, I will give you a jacketful of sore bones for comin\' to pry about here. This gintleman is a doctor; three of my family are lying ill of faver, and that you may catch it I pray gorra this day! but if you won\'t catch that, you\'ll catch this,” and he whirled the cudgel about his head, and most unquestionably it would have descended on Reilly s cranium were it not for the bishop, who interposed and prevented the meditated violence.

“Be quiet, Kelly,” said he, “be quiet, sir; this is Mr. Reilly disguised.”

“Troth, I must look closely at him first,” replied Kelly; “who knows but he\'s imposin\' upon you, Dr. Wilson?”

Kelly then looked closely into his face, still holding a firm grip of the cudgel.

“Why, Kelly,” said Reilly, “what the deuce are you at? Don\'t you know my voice at least?”

“Well,” replied Kelly, “bad luck to the like o\' that ever I see. Holy Moses, Mr. Reilly, but you had a narrow escape, Devil a man in the barony can handle a cudgel as I can, and it was a miracle, and you may thank his lordship here for it that you hadn\'t a shirtful of sore bones.”

“Well, my dear friend,” said Reilly, “put up your cudgel; I really don\'t covet a shirtful of sore bones; but, after all, perhaps you would have found my fist a match for your cudgel.”

“Nonsense!” replied Kelly; “but God be praised that you escaped the welting anyhow; I would never forgive myself, and you the friend of his lordship.”

He then left the room, his terrific cudgel under his arm, and Reilly, after his absence, related to the bishop the events of the day, involving, as they did, the two narrow escapes which he had had. The bishop thanked God, and told Reilly to be of good courage, for that he thought the hand of Providence was protecting him.

The life they led here was, at all events, quiet and peaceable. The bishop was a man of singular, indeed of apostolic, piety. He spent most of the day in meditation and prayer; fasting beyond the powers of his enfeebled constitution: and indeed it was fortunate that Reilly had accompanied him, for so ascetic were his habits that were it not for his entreaties, and the influence which he had gained over him, it is not at all unlikely that his unfortunate malady might have returned. The neighborhood in which they resided was, as wo have said, remote, and exclusively Catholic; and upon Sundays the bishop celebrated mass upon a little grassy platform—or rather in a little cave, into which it led. This cave was small, barely large enough to contain a table, which served as a temporary altar, the poor shivering congregation kneeling on the platform outside. At this period of our story all the Catholic chapels and places of worship were, as we have said, closed by proclamation, and the poor people were deprived of the means of meeting to worship God. It had soon, however, become known to them that an opportunity of public worship was to be had every Sunday, at the place we have described.

Messengers had been sent among them with information to that effect; and the consequence was that they not only kept the secret, but flocked in considerable numbers to attend mass. On the Sunday following the adoption of Reilly\'s disguise, the bishop and he proceeded to the little cave, or rather cleft, where a table had been placed, together with the vestments necessary for the ceremony. They found about two or three hundred persons assembled—most of them of the humblest class. The day was stormy in the extreme. It was a hard frost, and the snow, besides, falling heavily, the wind strong, and raging in hollow gusts about the place. The position of the table-altar, however, saved the bishop and the chalice, and the other matters necessary for the performance of worship, from the direct fury of the blast, but not altogether; for occasionally a whirlwind would come up, and toss over the leaves of the missal in such a way, and with such violence, that the bishop, who was now trembling from the cold, was obliged to lose some time in finding out the proper passages. It was a solemn sight to see two or three hundred persons kneeling, and bent in prostrate and heartfelt adoration, in the pious worship of that God who sends and withholds the storm; bareheaded, too, under the piercing drift of the thick-falling granular snow, and thinking of nothing but their own sins, and that gladsome opportunity of approaching the forbidden altar of God, now doubly dear to them that it ivas forbidden. As the ceremony was proceeding the bishop was getting on to that portion of the sacred rites where the consecration and elevation of the Host are necessary, and it was observed by all that an extraordinary and sudden lull took place, and that the rage of the storm had altogether ceased. He proceeded, and had consecrated the Host—hoc est corpus meum—when cry of terror arose from the affrighted congregation.

“Mylord, fly, and save yourself! Captain Smellpriest and his gang are upon us.”

The bishop never once turned round, nor seemed to hear them; but Reilly did, and saw that the whole congregation had fled, and that there only remained the bishop and himself.

“Our day of doom,” said he to himself, “is come. Nothing now can save us.”

Still the bishop proceeded undisturbed in the worship of the Almighty; when, lo! the military party, headed and led on by the notorious Captain Smellpriest, came thundering up, the captain exclaiming:

“You idolatrous Papist, stop that mummery—or you shall have twelve bullets in your heart before half a minute\'s time.”

The bishop had consecrated the Host, as we have said, but had not yet had time to receive it.

“Men,” said Smellpriest, “you are all primed and loaded. Present.”

They accordingly did so; every musket was levelled at him. The bishop now turned round, and, with the calmness of a martyr—a calmness and conduct that were sublime—he said:

“Sir, I am engaged in the worship of the Eternal God, and if you wish to shed my blood I should rather it were here and now than in any other place. Give me but a few minutes—I do not ask more.”

“Oh,” said Smellpriest, “we will give you ten, if you wish it, and the more so because we are sure of you.”

When the bishop turned round again, after having received the Host, his pale face had altogether changed its complexion—it burned with an expression which it is difficult to describe. A lofty sense of the sacrifice he was about to make was visible in his kindling and enthusiastic eye; his feeble frame, that had been, dining the ceremony of mass, shivering under the effects of the terrible storm that howled around them, now became firm, and not the slightest mark of fear or terror was visible in his bearing; calmly and undauntedly he turned round, and with a voice full and steady he said:

“I am willing to die for my religion, but I say to you that the slaughter of an inoffensive man at the foot of God\'s altar will not smooth the pillow of your deathbed, nor of those who shoot down a minister of God while in the act of worshipping his Creator, My congregation, poor timid creatures, have fled, but as for me, I will not! I dare not! Here, now, I spread out my arms—fire!”

Page 91-- Here, Now, I Spread out My Arms--fire!

“I also,” said Reilly, “will partake of whatever fate may befall the venerable clergyman who is before you,” and he stood up side by side with the bishop.

The guns were still levelled, the fingers of the men on the triggers, when Smellpriest shouted out, “Ground arms! By —-,” says he, “here is a new case; this fellow has spunk and courage, and curse me, although I give the priests a chase wherever I can, still I am a soldier, and a man of courage, and to shoot down a priest in the worship of God would be cowardly. No, I can\'t do it—nor I won\'t; I like pluck, and this priest has shown it. Had he taken to his heels, by —-, he would have had half a dozen bullets in his rear; but, as I said, I like pluck, and on that account we shall pass him by this time. To the right about. As to the clerk, by —-, he has shown pluck too, but be hanged to him, what do we care about him?”

We must say a word or two here about Smellpriest. He was, in the true sense of the word, a priest-hunter; but yet, with all his bigotry, he was a brave man, and could appreciate courage wherever he found it. The reader already knows that his range of persecution was by no means either so wide or so comprehensive as that of the coward Whitecraft. He was a dashing, outspoken fellow, with an equal portion of boisterous folly and mischief; whereas Whitecraft was a perfect snake—treacherous, cruel, persevering in his enmity, and unrelenting in his vengeance. Such was the difference in the character of these two worthies.

After Smellpriest had drawn off his men, the bishop concluded the ceremony of the mass; but when he turned round to announce its conclusion in the words, ite, missa est, there was not a soul before him, the terrified congregation, as we have said, having all betaken themselves to flight. Reilly then assisted him to unrobe, and placed the vestments, the chalice, pix, and every thing connected with the ceremony, in a pair of saddle-bags, which belonged to the parish priest, whose altar was then closed, as we said, by proclamation.

Reilly and the bishop then proceeded to the farmer\'s house, Reilly carrying the saddlebags, and as they went along the following conversation took place between them:

“My lord,” said his companion, “if I might presume to advise you, I think it would be more prudent for you to retire to the Continent for a time. This ferocious captain, who, subdued by the sublime tenor of your conduct, spared you on this occasion, may not under other and less impressive circumstances, exercise a similar forbearance.”

“But, my dear Reilly,” replied the bishop, in a tone of deep melancholy, “I am not in circumstances to go to the Continent; I am poor; most of my available money I have distributed among the unhappy people, until I am now nearly as poor as themselves; but, independently of that, I do not think it would be right to abandon the charge which God has entrusted to my keeping. The shepherd should not desert his flock, especially in the moment of danger, when the wolves ire abroad.”

“But, my lord,” replied Reilly, “under the present circumstances of the country your residence here can be of no service to them. The chapels are all closed, and public worship forbidden by law. This cannot, and, I hope, will not, last long; but in the meantime, think if it be not wiser in you to go for a time into what I may call a voluntary exile, than be forced into banishment by a cruel edict of the law, as you will be if you should be discovered.”

“There is great truth in what you say, my dear Reilly, and on thinking over the circumstances of the country, I am indeed of opinion that your advice is good; but, unfortunately, my present poverty prevents me from acting on it.”

“But that shall not be, my lord; I have the means—amply, too—of enabling your lordship to withdraw to the Continent, where you can remain quite safe until better times return, as I hope in God they will soon.”

“And yourself, Reilly? why not accompany me? You, it is said, are outlawed; why then remain in a country where your danger is still greater than mine?”

“My lord,” replied Reilly, “do not press me on that subject.”

“I do not wish to do so, Reilly; but here are the circumstances: you and the beautiful daughter of that old squire are attached—in other words, you love each other passionately. Now, you know, marriage is impossible, unless you should abandon the creed of your fathers.”

“I think, my lord,” replied Reilly, in a very serious and somewhat offended tone, “that my conduct this day, and within the last half hour, was not that of a man likely to abandon the creed of his fathers.”

“Certainly not—most certainly not,” replied the bishop. “I would have died this day for my religion, and so would you.”

“And so would I certainly, my lord, any day, sooner than renounce it for the love of woman. So far let your lordship\'s mind be at rest. But in the meantime, let me impress upon your lordship\'s consideration the absolute necessity of retiring to the Continent for a time. Your lordship\'s charity has made you poor; but, thank God, I am not poor—but in a position to place ￡200 in your hands to enable you to bear the expenses of your voyage, and to maintain your ecclesiastical rank and position for a time, when you get there.”

“Oh,” replied the bishop, “if I were once there, very little money would be necessary; I could almost immediately get a professorship of divinity, especially in the College of Louvain, where I held a professorship for several years.”

It was arranged that the bishop should go, at least until the times should change, and in the course of a week, Reilly having furnished him with the necessary funds, he departed and reached the Continent in safety.

Their separation was extremely affecting. The bishop wept bitterly, not only in consequence of his parting with Reilly, but still more because he was forced to separate himself from his flock. Reilly was deeply affected, nor could he restrain his tears. The bishop put his hand on his head and blessed him. “I feel,” said he, “as if it were a prophetic impulse, that God will bring you out of the tribulations that encompass you. Forget not his word nor his law; love and adhere to your religion; be guided by its precepts, let them sink deeply into your heart. Take care, also, that the love of woman shall not seduce you from your allegiance to our Church. And now, may the Almighty God bless and protect you, and rescue you from the hands and the snares of your enemies!” And so they parted.

No stronger proof could exist, so far as the Cooleen Bawn was concerned, than her extraordinary power of conciliating love and attachment from all who approached her, or were engaged in attending upon her person. The singular softness of her sweet and mellow voice was in itself an exponent of the remarkable suavity and benignity of her disposition. In fact, she carried a charm about her—an atmosphere of kindness and benevolence that no human being who came within its influence could resist. Her smile was a perfect fascination, which, in addition to her elegance of form—her grace and harmony of motion—her extensive charity—her noble liberality of sentiment—and, above all, her dazzling beauty, constituted a character which encircled her with admiration and something almost bordering on worship.

At this time a scheme came into the fertile brain of Whitecraft, worthy of being concocted only in the infernal pit itself. This was to prevail on the squire to remove her faithful, attached, and confidential maid, Ellen Connor, from about her person, under the plea that as, unfortunately, Miss Folliard had been seduced into an affection for Reilly, it was not only probable that her attendant had originated and encouraged her passion, but that it was also likely that, as Reilly was a Catholic, Connor, the co............