“And the gentry—where are they, who should stand at their head and share their fortune?” cried Kate eagerly; for the warning, so far from conveying the intended moral, only stimulated her ardour and excited her curiosity.
“The gentry,” replied Sir Archy, in a firm, decided tone, “are better satisfied to live under a government they dislike, than to be at the mercy of a rabble they despise, I ha'e lived langer than you in this dreary world, lassie, and trust me, the poetry of patriotism has little relation to the revengeful fury of rebellion. You wish freedom for those who cannot enjoy the portion of it they possess. It is time to outlive the evil memories of the past, we want here—time, to blunt the acuteness of former and long-past sufferings—time, to make traditions so far forgotten as to be inapplicable to the present—time, to read the homely lesson, that one half the energy a people can expend in revolt, will raise them in the rank of civilized and cultivated beings.”
“Time, to make Irishmen forget that the land of their birth was ever other than an English province,” added Kate, impetuously. “No, no, it was not thus your own brave countrymen understood their 'devoirs.'”
“They rallied round the standard of a prince they loved, lassie,” said M'Nab, in a tone whose fervour contrasted with his former accent.
“And will you tell me that the principle of freedom is not more sacred than the person of the sovereign?” said Kate, tauntingly.
“There can be nae mistake about the one, but folks may have vara unsettled notions of the other,” said he, drily; “but we mauna quarrel, Kate dear; our time is e'en too short already. Sit ye down and sing me a sang.”
“It shall be a rebel one, then, I promise you,” replied she, with an air of defiance which it was impossible to pronounce more real or assumed. “But here comes a visitor to interrupt us, and so your loyalty is saved for this time.”
The observation was made in reference to a traveller, who, seated in a very antique looking dennet, was seen slowly labouring his wearied horse up the steep ascent to the castle.
“It's Swaby, father,” cried Herbert, who immediately recognized the equipage of the Cork attorney, and felt a certain uneasiness come over him at the unexpected appearance.
“What brings him down to these parts?” said the O'Donoghue, affecting an air of surprise—“on his way to Killarney, perhaps. Well, well, they may let him in.”