However imperfectly she spoke the native tongue, the words seemed to act like a charm on those who heard them; and as, young and old, they gathered around her, their eager looks and delighted faces beamed with a triumphant joy. They had learned from the boatmen that it was the young princess—as in the language of the people she was called—was before them, and their pride and happiness knew no bounds.
Oh, if courtiers could feel one tithe of the personal devotion to the sovereign that did these poor peasants to her they regarded as their chief, what an atmosphere of chivalry would breathe within the palace of royalty! There was nothing they would not have done or dared at her bidding; and as she crossed their threshold, and sat down beside their hearth, the tears of joy that rose to every eye showed that this was an event to be treasured till memory could retain no more!
If Mary did not speak the native dialect fluently, there was a grace and a charm about the turn of the expressions she used that never failed to delight those who heard her. That imaginative thread that runs through the woof of Irish nature in every rank and condition of life—more conspicuous, probably, in the very humblest—imparted an intense pleasure to hearing and listening to her; and she, on her side, roused and stimulated by the adventurous character of the incident, the strange wild spot, the simple people, their isolation and their innocence, spoke with a warmth and an enthusiasm that were perfectly captivating.
She had seen much of the peasantry,—known them in the most unfrequented tracts, remote from all their fellow-men,—in far-away glens, by dreary mountains, where no footpaths led; but anything so purely simple and unsophisticated as these poor people she had never met with. The sons had been—and that rarely, too—on the mainland, but the children and their mothers had never left the Brannocks; they had never beheld a tree, nor even a flower, save the wild crocus on their native rock. With what eager delight, then, did they hear Mary describe the gardens of the castle,—pictures that glowed with all the gorgeous colors of a fairy tale. “You shall all come and see me, some of these days. I'll send you a messenger, to say the time,” said Mary; “and I'll promise that what you 'll witness will be far above my description of it!”
It was a sad moment when Mary arose to say good-bye. Joan, too, was to accompany her, and the grief at parting with her was extreme. Again and again the children clung round her, entreating her not to leave them; and she herself half faltered in her resolution. That lonely rock, that rude cabin, had been her refuge in the darkest hour of her life, and she felt the superstitious terror of her class at now deserting them.
“Come, come, dear Joan, remember that you have a home now that you can rightfully return to,” whispered Mary. “It is not in shame, but in honor, that you go back to it.”
It was already dark ere they left the Brannocks: a long, heavy swell, too, the signs of a storm, coming from the westward, made the boatmen eager to hasten their departure. As yet, however, the air was calm and still, but it was with that oppressive stillness that forebodes change. They hoisted their sail, but soon saw that they must, for a while at least, trust to their oars. The unbroken stillness, save by the measured stroke of the rowers, the dense dark atmosphere, and the reaction, after a day of toil and an event of a most moving kind, so overcame Mary that, leaning on Joan's shoulder, she fell off fast asleep. For a while Joan, proud of the burden she supported, devoted all her care to watch and protect her from the night air; but at last weariness stole over herself, and she dropped off to slumber.
Meanwhile the sea was rising; heavy waves struck the boat, and washed over her in sheets of spray, although no wind was stirring.
“We 'll have rain, or a gale of wind before long,” said one of the men.
“There 's some heavy drops falling now,” muttered another.