Mark repeated the doggerel as well as he was able, and pledged the only sentiment he could divine, that of the latter part, with all his enthusiasm.
“You may tell him what you plaze, now,” whispered Mary in Lanty's ear; for her ready wit perceived that his blood was warmed by the wine, and his heart open for any communication.
Lanty hesitated but a second, then drawing his chair close to Mark's, he said—
“I'm going now to put my life in your hands, but I can't help it. When Ireland is about to strike for liberty, it is not an O'Donoghue should be last in the ranks. Swear to me you'll never mention again what I'll tell you—swear it on the book.” Mary, at the same moment, placed in his hand a breviary, with a gilt cross on the binding, which Mark took reverently, and kissed twice. “That's enough—your word would do me, but I must obey them that's over me;” and so saying, Lanty at once proceeded to lay before the astonished mind of young O'Donoghue, the plan of France for an invasion of Ireland—not vaguely nor imperfectly, not in the mere language of rumour or chance allusion, but with such aids to circumstance and time, as gave him the appearance of one conversant with what he spoke on. The restoration of Irish independence—the resumption of forfeited estates—the return of the real nobility of the land to their long-lost-position of eminence and influence, were themes he descanted upon with consummate skill, bringing home each fact to the actual effect such changes would work in the youth's own condition, who, no longer degraded to the rank of a mere peasant, would once again assert his own rightful station, and stand forth at the head of his vast property—the heir of an honoured name and house. Lanty knew well, and more too, implicitly believed in all the plausible pretension of French sympathy for Irish suffering, which formed the cant of the day. He had often heard the arguments in favour of the success of such an expedition—in fact, the reasons for which its failure was deemed impossible. These he repeated fluently, giving to his narrative the semblance of an incontestible statement, and then he told him that from Brest to Dublin was “fifty hours' sail, with a fair wind”—that same “easterly breeze,” the toast alluded to, that the French could throw thirty, nay, fifty thousand troops into Ireland, yet never weaken their own army to any extent worth speaking of—that England was distracted by party spirit, impoverished by debt, and totally unable to repel invasion, and, in fact, that if Ireland would be but “true to herself,” her success was assured.
He told, too, how Irishmen were banded together in a sworn union to assert the independence of their country, and that such as held back. or were reluctant in the cause, would meet the fate of enemies. On the extent and completeness of the organization, he dwelt with a proud satisfaction, but when he spoke of large masses of men trained to move and act together, Mark suddenly interrupted him, saying—
“Yes, I have seen them. It's not a week since some hundreds marched through this glen at midnight.”
“Ay, that was Holt's party,” said Mary, composedly; “and fine men they are.”
“They were unarmed,” said Mark.
“If they were, it is because the general didn't want their weapons.”
“There's arms enough to be had when the time comes for using them,” broke in Mary.