Читать книгу: «The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago», страница 34

“No, Father, no,” cried he, wildly; “be firm, be resolute; if this unhappy land is to be the scene of bloodshed, let not her sons be found in opposing ranks.”

“This from you, Herbert!” said Mark, reproachfully, as he fixed a cold, stern gaze upon his brother.

“And why not from him,” said the priest, hastily. “Is he not an Irishman in heart and spirit? Is not the land as dear to him as to us?”

“I give you joy upon the alliance, Father,” said Mark, with a scornful laugh. “Herbert is a Protestant.”

“What! – did I hear aright?” said the old man, as with a face pale as death, he tottered forwards, and caught the youth by either arm. “Is this true, Herbert? Tell me, boy, this instant, that it is not so.”

“It is true, sir, most true; and if I have hitherto spared you the pain it might occasion you, believe me it was not from any shame the avowal might cost me.”

The priest staggered back, and fell heavily into a chair; a livid hue spread itself over his features, and his eyes grew glassy and lustreless.

“We may well be wretched and miserable,” exclaimed he with a faint sigh, “when false to heaven, who is to wonder that we are traitors to each other.”

The French officer – for such he was – muttered some words into Mark’s ear, who replied – “I cannot blame you for feeing impatient; this is no time for fooling. Now for the glen. Farewell, Father. Herbert, we’ll meet again soon;” and without waiting to hear more, he hastened from the room with his companion.

Herbert stood for a second or two undecided. He wished to say something, yet knew not what, or how. At last approaching the old man’s chair, he said —

“There is yet time to avert the danger; the people are irresolute – many actually averse to the rising; my brother will fall by his rashness.”

“Better to do so than survive in dishonour,” said the priest, snatching rudely away his hand from Herbert’s grasp. “Leave me, young man – go; this is a poor and an humble roof; but never till now has it sheltered the apostate.”

“I never thought I should hear these words, here,” said Herbert, mildly; “but I cannot part from you in anger.”

“There was a time when you never left me without my blessing, Herbert,” said the priest, his eyes swimming in tears as he spoke; “kneel now, my child.”

Herbert knelt at the priest’s feet, when placing his hand on the young man’s head, he muttered a fervent prayer over him, saying, as he concluded —

“And may He who knows all hearts, direct and guide yours, and bring you back from your wanderings, if you have strayed from truth.”

He kissed the young man’s forehead, and then covering his eyes with his hands, sat lost in his own sorrowful thoughts.

At this moment Herbert heard his name whispered by a voice without; he stole silently from the room, and on reaching the little porch, found Kerry O’Leary, who, wet through and wearied, had reached the cottage, after several hours’ endeavour to cross the watercourses, swollen into torrents by the rain.

“A letter from Carrig-na-curra, sir,” said Kerry; for heartily sick of his excursion, he adopted the expedient of pretending to mistake to which brother the letter was addressed, and thus at once terminate his unpleasant mission.

The note began, “My dear son;” and, without the mention of a name, simply entreated his immediate return home. Thither Herbert felt both duty and inclination called him, and without a moment’s delay left the cottage, and, accompanied by Kerry, set out for Carrig-na-curra.

The night was dark and starless, as they plodded onward, and as the rain ceased, the wind grew stronger, while for miles inland the roaring of the sea could be heard like deep continuous thunder. Herbert, too much occupied with his own thoughts, seldom spoke, nor did Kerry, exhausted as he felt himself, often break silence as they went. As they drew near the castle, however, a figure crossed the road, and advancing towards them said —

“Good night.”

“Who could that be, Kerry?” said Herbert, as the stranger passed on.

“I know the voice well,” said Kerry, “though he thought to disguise it. That’s Sam Wylie, and it’s not for any thing good he’s here.”

Scarcely were the words spoken, when four fellows sprang down upon and seized them.

“This is our man,” said one of the party, as he held Herbert by the collar, with a grasp there was no resisting; “but secure the other also.”

Herbert’s resistance was vain, although spiritedly made, and stifling his cries for aid, they carried him along for some little distance to a spot, where a chaise was standing with four mounted dragoons on either side. Into this he was forced, and seated between two men in plain clothes, the word was given to start.

“You know your orders if a rescue be attempted,” said a voice, Herbert at once knew to be Hemsworth’s.

The answer was lost in the noise of the wheels; for already the horses were away at the top of their speed, giving the escort all they could do to keep up beside them.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE DAY OF RECKONING

Never had the O’Donoghue and Kate passed a day of more painful anxiety, walking from window to window, whenever a view of the glen might be obtained, or listening to catch among the sounds of the storm for something that should announce Mark’s return; their fears increased as the hours stole by, and yet no sign of his coming appeared.

The old castle shook to its very foundations, as the terrific gale tore along the glen, and the occasional crash of some old fragment of masonry, would be heard high above the roaring wind – while in the road beneath were scattered branches of trees, slates, and tiles, all evidencing the violence of the hurricane. Under shelter of the great rock, a shivering flock of mountain sheep were gathered, with here and there amidst them a heifer or a wild pony, all differences of habit merged in the common instinct of safety. Within doors every thing looked sad and gloomy; the kitchen, where several country people, returning from the market, had assembled, waiting in the vain hope of a favourable moment to proceed homeward, did not present any of its ordinary signs of gaiety. There was no pleasant sound of happy voices; no laughter, no indulgence in the hundred little narratives of personal adventure by which the peasant can beguile the weary time. They all sat around the turf fire, either silent, or conversing in low cautious whispers, while Mrs. Branagan herself smoked her pipe in a state of moody dignity, that added its shade of awe to the solemnity of the scene.

It was a strange feature of the converse, nor would it be worth to mention here, save as typifying the wonderful caution and reserve of the people in times of difficulty; but no one spoke of the “rising,” nor did any allude, except distantly, to the important military preparations going forward at Macroom. The fear of treachery was at the moment universal; the dread that informers were scattered widely through the land, prevailed everywhere, and the appearance of a stranger, or of a man from a distant part of the country, was always enough to silence all free and confidential intercourse. So it was now – none spoke of anything but the dreadful storm – the injury it might do the country – how the floods would carry away a bridge here, or a mill there, what roads would be impassable – what rivers would no longer be ford-able – some had not yet drawn home their turf from the bog, and were now in despair of ever reaching it – another had left his hay in a low callow, and never expected to see it again – while a few, whose speculations took a wider field ventured to expatiate on the terrible consequences of the gale at sea, a topic which when suggested led to many a sorrowful tale of shipwreck on the coast.

It was while they were thus, in low and muttering voices, talking over these sad themes, that Kate, unable any longer to endure the suspense of silent watching, descended the stairs, and entered the kitchen, to try and learn there some tidings of events. The people stood up respectfully as she came forward, and while each made his or her humble obeisance, a muttered sound ran through them, in Irish, of wonder and astonishment at her grace and beauty; for, whatever be the privations of the Irish peasant, however poor and humble his lot in life, two faculties pertain to him like instincts – a relish for drollery, and an admiration for beauty – these are claims that ever find acknowledgment from him, and in his enjoyment of either, he can forget himself, and all the miseries of his condition. The men gazed on her as something more than mortal, the character of her features heightened by costume strange to their eyes, seemed to astonish almost as much as it captivated them – while the women, with more critical discernment, examined her more composedly, but, perhaps, with not less admiration; Mrs. Branagan, at the same time throwing a proud glance around, as though to say, “You didn’t think to see the likes of that, in these parts.”

Kate happened on this occasion to look more than usually handsome. With a coquetry it is not necessary to explain, she had dressed herself most becomingly, and in that style which distinctly marks a French woman – the only time in his life Mark had ever remarked her costume was when she wore this dress, and she had not forgotten the criticism.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” said Kate, with her slightly foreign accent; “pray sit down again – well, then, I must leave you, if you won’t – every one let’s me have my own way – is it not true, Mrs. Branagan?”

Mrs. Branagan’s reply was quite lost in the general chorus of the others, as she said —

“And why wouldn’t you, God bless you for a raal beauty!” while a powerful looking fellow, with dark beard and whiskers, struck his stick violently against the ground, and cried out in his enthusiasm —

“Let me see the man that would say agin it – that’s all.”

Kate smiled at the speaker, not all ungrateful for such rude chivalry, and went on – “I wanted to hear if you have any news from the town – was there any stir among the troops, or anything extraordinary going forward there?”

Each looked at the other as if unwilling to take the reply upon himself, when at last an old man, with a head as white as snow, answered —

“Yes, my lady, the soldiers is all under arms since nine o’clock, then came news that the French was in the Bay, and the army was sent for to Cork.”

“No, ‘tis Limerick I heerd say,” cried another.

“Limerick indeed! sorra bit, ‘tis from Dublin they’re comin wid cannons; but it’s no use, for the French is sailed off again as quick as they come.”

“The French fleet gone! – left the Bay – surely you must mistake,” said Kate, eagerly.

“Faix, I won’t be sure, my lady; but here’s Tom McCarthy seen them going away, a little after twelve o’clock.”

The man thus appealed to, seemed in nowise satisfied with the allusions to him, and threw a quick distrustful look around, as though far from feeling content with the party before whom he should explain, a feeling that increased considerably as every eye was now turned towards him.

Kate, with a ready tact that never failed her, saw his difficulty, and approaching close to where he stood, said, in a voice only audible by himself —

“Tell me what you saw in the Bay, do not have any fear of me.”

M’Carthy, who was dressed in the coarse blue jacket of a fisherman! possessed that sharp intelligence so often found among those of his calling, and seemed at once to have his mind relieved by this mark of confidence.

“I was in the boat, my lady,” said he, “that rowed Master Mark out to the French frigate, and waited for him alongside to bring him back. He was more than an hour on board talking with the officers, sometimes down in the cabin, and more times up on the quarter-deck, where there was a fierce-looking man, with a blue uniform, lying on a white skin – a white bear, Master Mark tould me it was. The officer was wounded in the leg before he left France, and the sea voyage made it bad again, but, for all that, he laughed and joked away like the others.”

“And they were laughing then, and in good spirits?” said Kate.

“‘Tis that you may call it. I never heerd such pleasant gentlemen before, and the sailors too was just the same – sorra bit would sarve them, but making us drink a bottle of rum apiece, for luck, I suppose – devil a one had a sorrowful face on him but Master Mark, whatever was the matter with him, he wouldn’ eat anything either, and the only glass of wine he drank, you’d think it was poison, the face he made at it – more by token he flung the glass overboard when he finished it. And to be sure the Frenchmen weren’t in fault, they treated him like a brother – one would be shaking hands wid him – another wid his arm round his shoulders, and” – here Tom blushed and stammered, and at last stopped dead short.

“Well, go on, what were you going to say?”

“Faix, I’m ashamed then – but ‘tis true enough – saving your presence, I saw two of them kiss him.”

Kate could not help laughing at Tom’s astonishment at this specimen of French greeting – while for the first time, perhaps, did the feeling of the peasant occur to herself, and the practice she had often witnessed abroad, without remark, became suddenly repugnant to her delicacy.

“And did Master Mark come back alone,” asked she, after a minute’s hesitation.

“No, my lady, there was a little dark man wid gould epaulettes, and a sword on him, that came too. I heerd them call him, Mr. Morris, but sorra word of English or Irish he had.”

“And where did they land, and which way did they take afterwards?”

“I put them ashore at Glengariff, and they had horses there to take them up the country. I heerd they were going first to Father Rourke’s in the glen.”

“And then, after that?”

“Sorra a one of me knows. I never set eyes on them since – I was trying to get a warp out for one of the French ships, for the anchors was dragging – they came to the wrong side of the island, and got into the north channel, and that was the reason they had to cut their cables and stand out to sea till the gale is over, but there’s not much chance of that for some time.”

Kate did not speak for several minutes, and at length said —

“The people, tell me of them, were they in great numbers along the coast, were there a great many of them with Mr. Mark when he came down to the shore?”

“I’ll tell you no He, my lady; there was not – there was some boys from Castletown, and down thereabouts, but the O’Learys and the Sullivans, the McCarthys – my own people – and the Neals wasn’t there; and sure enough it was no wonder if Master Mark was angry, when he looked about and saw the fellows was following him. ‘Be off,’ says he, ‘away wid ye, ‘tis for pillage and robbery the likes of ye comes down here – if the men that should have heart and courage in the cause won’t come forward, I’ll never head ruffians like you to replace them.’ Them’s the words he said, and hard words they were.”

“Poor fellow,” said Kate, as she wiped away a tear from her eye, “none stand by him, not one, and why is this the case,” asked she, eagerly, “have the people grown faint-hearted – are there cowards amongst them?”

“There’s as bad,” said M’Carthy, in a low, cautious whisper – . “there’s traitors, that would rather earn blood money, than live honestly – there’s many a one among them scheming to catch Master Mark himself, and he is lucky if he escapes at last.”

“There’s horses now, coming up the road, and fast they’re coming too,” said one of the country people, and the quick clattering of a gallop could be heard along the plashy road.

Kate’s heart beat almost audibly, and she bounded from the spot, and up the stairs. The noise of the approaching horses came nearer, and at last stopped before the door.

“It is him – it is Mark,” said she to herself, in an ecstasy of delight, and with trembling fingers withdrew the heavy bolt, and undid the chain, while, with an effort of strength the emergency alone conferred, she threw wide the massive door, clasped and framed with iron.

“Oh, how I have watched for you,” exclaimed she, as a figure, dismounting hastily, advanced towards her, and the same instant the roice revealed Hemsworth, as he said —

“If I could think this greeting were indeed meant for me, Miss O’Donoghue, I should call this moment the happiest of my life.”

“I thought it was my cousin,” said Kate, as almost fainting, she fell back into a seat, “but you may have tidings of him, can you tell if he is safe?”

“I expected to have heard this intelligence from you,” said he, as recovering from the chagrin of his disappointment, he resumed his habitual deference of tone; “has he not returned?”

“No, we have not seen him, nor has the messenger yet come back. Herbert also is away, and we are here alone.”

As Hemsworth offered her his arm to return to the drawing-room, he endeavoured to reassure her on the score of Mark’s safety, while he hinted that the French, who that morning had entered Bantry Bay with eleven vessels, unprepared for the active reception his measures had provided, had set sail again, either to await the remainder of the fleet, or perhaps return to France; “I would not wish to throw blame on those whose misfortune is already heavy, but I must tell you, Miss O’Donoghue, that every step of this business has been marked by duplicity and cowardice. I, of course, need not say, that in either of these, your friends stand guiltless, but your cousin has been a dupe throughout; the dupe of every one who thought it worth his while to trick and deceive him – he believed himself in the confidence of the leaders of the expedition – they actually never heard of his name. He thought himself in a position of trust and influence – he is not recognized by any – unnoticed by his own party, and unacknowledged by the French, his only notoriety will be the equivocal one of martyrdom.”

Every word of this speech, uttered in a voice of sad, regretful meaning, as though the speaker were sorrowing over the mistaken opinions of a dear friend, cut deeply into Kate’s heart – she knew not well at the instant, whether she should not better have faced actual danger for her cousin, than have seen him thus deceived and played upon. Hemsworth saw the effect his words created, and went on —

“Would that the danger rested here, and that the fate of one rash, but high-spirited boy, was all that hung on the crisis” – as he spoke he threw a cautious look around the roomy apartment to see that they were, indeed, alone.

“Great Heaven! there is not surely worse than this in store for us,” cried Kate, in a voice of heartrending affliction.

“There is far worse, Miss O’Donoghue; the ruin that threatens is that of a whole house – a noble and honoured name – your uncle is unhappily no stranger to these mischievous intentions – I was slow to put faith in the assertion.”

“It is false – I know it is false,” said Kate, passionately – “My poor dear uncle, overwhelmed with many calamities, has borne up patiently and nobly, but of any participation in schemes of danger or enterprize he is incapable – think of his age – his infirmity.”

“I am aware of both, young lady, but I am also aware that for years past, his pecuniary difficulties have been such that he would hesitate at nothing which should promise the chance of extrication. Many have imagined like him, that even a temporary triumph over England would lead to some new settlement between the two countries, concessions of one kind or other, laws revoked and repealed, and confiscations withdrawn; nor were the expectations, perhaps, altogether unfounded. Little has ever been accorded to Ireland as a grace – much has been obtained by her by menace.”

“He never calculated on such an issue to the struggle, sir; depend upon it, no unworthy prospect of personal gain ever induced an O’Donoghue to adopt a cause like this. You have convinced me, now, that he is unconnected with this plot.”

“I sincerely wish my own convictions could follow yours, madam, but it is an ungrateful office I have undertaken. Would to heaven I knew how to discharge it more fittingly. To be plain, Miss O’Donoghue, the statute of high treason, which will involve the confiscation of your uncle’s estate, will, if measures be not speedily taken, rob you of your fortune; to prevent this —

“Stay, sir, I may save you some trouble on my account. I have no fortune, nor any claim upon my uncle’s estate.”

“Pardon me, young lady, but the circumstance of my position has made me acquainted with matters connected with your family; your claim extends to a very considerable, and a very valuable property.”

“Once more, sir, I must interrupt you – I have none.”

“If I dare contradict you I would say – ”

“Nay, nay, sir,” cried she, blushing, partly from shame, and partly from anger – “this must cease, I know not what right you have to press the avowal from me. The property you speak of is no longer mine; my uncle did me the honour to accept it from me, would that the gift could express the thousandth part of the love I bear him.”

“You gave over your claim to your uncle!” said Hemsworth, leaving a pause between every word of the sentence, while a look of malignant anger settled on his brow.

“Who dares to question me on such a subject,” said Kate, for the insulting expression so suddenly assumed by Hemsworth, roused all her indignation.

“Is this, then, really so,” said Hemsworth, who, so unaccustomed as he ever was to be overreached, felt all the poignancy of a deception in his disappointment.

Kate made no answer, but moved towards the door, while Hemsworth sprang forward before her, and placed his back against it.

“What means this, or how comes it, that you dare to treat me thus beneath my uncle’s roof?”

“One word only, Miss O’Donoghue,” said Hemsworth, with an effort to assume his habitual tone of deference; “May I ask was this transfer of property made legally and formally.”

“Sir,” said Kate, as drawing herself up, she stared full at him, without another word of reply.

“I see it all,” said Hemsworth, rapidly, and as if thinking, aloud. “This was the money that paid off Hickson – in this way the mortgage was redeemed, and the bond for two thousand also recovered – duped and cheated at every step. And so, madam,” – here he turned a look of insulting menace towards her – “I have been the fool in your hands all this time; and not content with thwarting my views, you have endeavoured to sap the source of my fortune. Yes, you need not affect ignorance; I know of Sir Archibald’s kind interference in my behalf: Sir Marmaduke Travers has withdrawn his agency from me; he might have paused to inquire where was the property from which he has removed me – how much of it owns him the master, or me. This was your uncle’s doing. I have it under his own hand, and the letter addressed to yourself.”

“And you dared, sir, to break the seal of my letter!”

“I did more, madam – I sent a copy of it to the Secretary of State, whose warrant I possess: the young officials of the Home Office will, doubtless, thank me for the amusement I have afforded them in its contents. The match-making talents of Sir Archy and his niece’s fascinations have, however, failed for once. The Guardsman seems to have got over his short-lived passion.”

“Stand back, sir, and let me pass.”

“One moment more, madam; if I have suffered some injuries from your family, I have at least one debt of gratitude to acknowledge – but for your note, written by your own hand, I should scarcely have succeeded in capturing a rebel, whose treason will not long await its penalty – but for your able assistance, your cousin might have escaped – indeed, it may be worth while to inform you that Sir Archibald had good hopes of obtaining his pardon, a circumstance which will, doubtless, be satisfactory to the surviving members of the family.”

“My cousin Mark taken!” cried Kate, as she clasped her hands to either side of her head in a paroxysm of agony.

“Taken, and on his way to Dublin, under a military escort; on Wednesday he will be tried by court-martial: I hope and trust on Thursday – but perhaps it would be cruel to tell you of Thursday’s proceedings.”

Kate reeled, and endeavoured to support herself by a chair; but a sickness like death crept over her, and with a faint low sigh she sank lifeless on the floor; at the same instant the door was burst open by a tremendous effort, and Hemsworth sent forward into the room. It was Mark, splashed and dripping, his face flushed with violent exertion, that entered. With one glance at Hemsworth, and another at the fainting form before him, he seemed to divine all.

“Our day of reckoning is come at last, sir,” said he, in a low distinct voice; “it has been somewhat tardy, however.”

“If you have any claim on me, Mr. O’Donoghue,” said Hemsworth, with a forced calmness, “I am ready, at the proper time and place, to offer you every satisfaction.”

“That time and place is here, sir,” said Mark, as without the slightest sign of passion he bolted the door, and drew a heavy table across it. “Here, in this room, from which both of us shall never walk forth alive.”

“Take care, sir, what you do; I am armed,” said Hemsworth, as he threw a quick glance around, to see if any hope of escape should present itself.

“And so am I,” said Mark, coolly, who still busied himself in removing every object from the middle of the room, while gently lifting Kate, he laid her, still unconscious as she was, upon a sofa.

“We have neither of us much time to throw away, I fancy,” said he, with a bitter laugh; “choose your place now, sir, and fire when you please – mine is yonder;” and as he spoke he turned half round to walk towards the spot indicated. With the quickness of lightning, Hemsworth seized the moment, and drawing a pistol from his bosom, aimed and fired; the ball grazed Mark’s shoulder, and made him stagger forwards; but in a second he recovered himself: the casualty saved him; for while falling, a second bullet whizzed after the first. With a cry of vengeance that made the old walls ring again, Mark sprang at him; it was the deadly leap of a tiger on his prey; the impulse was such, that as he caught him in his arms, both rolled over together on the floor. The struggle was but brief; Mark, superior in youth, strength, and activity, soon got him under, and with his knee upon his chest, pinioned him down to the ground. There was a pause, the only sounds being the quick-drawn breathings of both, as with looks of hate they gazed at each other; – while with one hand he grasped Hemsworth by the throat, with the other he felt for his pistol: slowly he drew forth the weapon, and cocked it; then laying the cold muzzle upon the other’s forehead, he pressed the trigger; the cock snapped, but the priming burned. He flung the weapon from him in passion, and drew another; but ere he could adjust it, Hemsworth ceased to breathe; a cold livid colour spread over his features, and a clammy sweat bedewed his forehead – he had fainted.

Mark dropped the uplifted weapon, as he muttered – “It was a fitting fate – the death of a coward.” Then standing up, he approached the window that overlooked the road, and threw it wide open. The storm still blew with all its force, and in a second extinguished the lights in the room, leaving all in darkness. With cautious steps, Mark moved towards where the body lay, and lifting it in his powerful arms, carried it towards the window; with one vigorous effort he hurled the lifeless form from him, and the heavy mass was heard as it fell crashing among the brushwood that covered the precipice.

Mark gazed for a few seconds into the black abyss beneath, and then withdrawing, he closed the window, and barred it. By the aid of his pistol he struck a light, and relighted the candles, and then approached the sofa where Kate lay.

“Have I been ill, Mark?” said she, as she touched his band – “have I been ill, and dreaming a horrid dream? I thought Hems-worth was here, and that – that – but he was here – I know it now – you met him here. Oh, Mark, dearest Mark, what has happened – where is he?”

Mark pointed to the window, but never spoke.

“Is he killed – did you kill him?” cried she, as her eyes grew wild with the expression of terror. “Oh, merciful heaven, who has visited us so heavily, why will reason remain when madness would be mercy! You have killed him!”

“He did not die by my hand, though he well deserved to have done so,” said Mark, sternly; “but are our hours to be so many now, that we can waste them on such a theme. The French are in the Bay – at least a portion of the fleet – sixteen vessels, nine of which are ships of the line, are holding by their anchors beneath our cliffs; twenty more are at sea, or wrecked or captured by the English, for who can tell the extent of our disasters. All is against us; but against all we might succeed, if we had not traitors amongst us.”

“The Government is aware of the plot, Mark – knows every man engaged in it, and is fully prepared to meet your advance.”

“Such is the rumour; but there’s no truth in it: the people hold back, and give this as the excuse for their cowardice. The priests will not harangue them, and the panic spreads every moment wider, of treachery and betrayal. Lanty Lawler, the fellow who should have supplied horses for the artillery, is an informer; so are half the others. There’s nothing for it but a bold plunge – something to put every neck in the halter, and then will come the spirit to meet all difficulties – so thinks Tone, and he’s a noble-hearted fellow, and ready for any peril.”

A loud knocking at the door of the tower now broke in upon the converse, and Kerry O’Leary called aloud —

“Open the door, Master Mark; be quick, the soldiers is comin’.”

Mark speedily withdrew the heavy table from its place across the door, and opened it. Kerry, his clothes reduced to rags, and his face and hands bleeding, stood before him, terror in every feature. “They took me prisoner at the gate there, but I contrived to slip away, and took to the mountain, and a fine chase they gave me for the last hour – ”