The physician's apprehensions were well founded. The first few hours after the accident seemed to threaten nothing serious, but as night fell, violent headache and fever set in, and before day-break, he was quite delirious.
No sooner did the news reach Carrig-na-curra, than Kerry was dispatched to bring back tidings of his state; for, however different the estimation in which he was held by each, one universal feeling pervaded all—of sorrow for his disaster, Day after day, Sir Archy or Herbert went over to inquire after him; but some chronic feature of his malady seemed to have succeeded, and he lay in one unvarying condition of lethargic unconsciousness.
In this way, week after week glided over, and the condition of the country seemed like that of the sick man—one of slumbering apathy. The pursuit of Mark, so eagerly begun, had, as it were, died out. The proclamations of reward, torn down by the country people on their first appearance, were never renewed, and the military party, after an ineffectual search through Killarney, directed their steps northwards towards Tralee, and soon after returned to head-quarters. Still, with all these signs of security, Mark, whose short experience of life, had taught him caution, rarely ventured near Carrig-na-curra, and never passed more than a few moments beneath his father's roof.
While each had a foreboding that this calm was but the lull that preludes a storm, their apprehensions took very different and opposing courses, Kate's anxieties increased with each day of Hemsworth's illness; she saw the time gliding past in which escape seemed practicable, and yet knew not how to profit by the opportunity. Sir Archy, coupling the activity with which Mark's pursuit was first undertaken, with the sudden visit of Hemsworth to the country, and the abandonment of all endeavours to capture him, which followed on Hemsworth's accident, felt strong suspicion that the agent was the prime mover in the whole affair, and that his former doubts, were well founded regarding him; while Herbert, less informed than either on the true state of matters, formed opinions, which changed and vacillated with each day's experience.
In this condition of events, Sir Archy had gone over one morning alone, to inquire after Hemsworth, whose case, for some days preceding, was more than usually threatening—symptoms of violent delirium having succeeded to the dead lethargy in which he was sunk. Buried deeply in his conjectures as to the real nature of the part he was acting, and how far his motives tallied with honourable intentions, the old man plodded wearily on, weighing every word he could remember that bore upon events, and carefully endeavouring to divest his mind of every thing like a prejudice. Musing thus, he accidentally diverged from the regular approach, and turned off into a narrow path, which led to the back of “the Lodge;” nor was he aware of his mistake, till he saw, at the end of the walk, the large window of a room he remembered as belonging to the former building.. The sash was open, but the curtains, were drawn closely, so as to intercept any view from within or without. He observed these things, as fatigued by an unaccustomed exertion, he seated himself, for some moments' rest, on a bench beneath the trees.
A continuous, low, moaning sound soon caught his ear; he listened, and could distinctly hear the heavy breathing of a sick man, accompanied as it was by long-drawn sighs. There were voices, also, of persons speaking cautiously together, and the words, “He is asleep at last,” were plainly audible, after which the door closed, and all was still.
The solemn awe which great illness inspires was felt in all its force by the old man, as he sat like one spell-bound, and unable to depart. The labouring respiration that seemed to bode the ebb of life, made his own strong heart tremble, for he thought how, in his last hours, he might have wronged him. “Oh! if I have been unjust—if I have followed him to the last with ungenerous doubt—forgive me, Heaven; even now my own heart is half my accuser;” and his lips murmured a deep and fervent prayer, for that merciful benevolence, which, in his frail nature, he denied to another. He arose from his knees with a spirit calmed, and a courage stronger, and was about to retire, when a sudden cry from the sick room arrested his steps. It was followed by another more shrill and piercing still, and then a horrid burst of frantic laughter: dreadful as the anguish-wrung notes of suffering—how little do they seem in comparison, with the sounds of mirth from the lips of madness!
“There—there,” cried a voice, he at once knew as Hemsworth's—“that's him, that's your prisoner—make sure of him now; remember your orders, men!—do you hear; if they attempt a rescue, load with ball, and fire low—mind that, fire low. Ah! you are pale enough now;” and again the savage laughter rung out. “Yes, madam,” continued he, in a tone of insolent sarcasm, “every respect shall be shown him—a chair in the dock—a carpet on the gallows. You shall wear mourning for him—all the honeymoon, if you fancy it. Yes,” screamed he, in a wild and frantic voice, “this is like revenge! You struck me once—you called me coarse plebeian, too! We shall be able to see the blood you are proud of—aye, the blood! the blood!”—and then, as if worn out by exhaustion, he heaved a heavy sigh, and fell into deep moaning as before.
Sir Archy, who felt in the scene a direct acknowledgment of his appeal to Heaven, drew closer to the window, and listened. Gradually, and like one awaking from a heavy slumber, the sick man stretched his limbs, and drew a long sigh, whose groaning accent spoke of great debility and then, starting up in his bed, shouted— “It is, it is the King's warrant—who dares to oppose it. Ride in faster, men—faster; keep together here, the west side of the mountain. There—there, yonder, near the beach. Who was that spoke of pardon? Never; if he resists, cut him down. Ride for it, men, ride;” and in his mad excitement, he arose from his bed, and gained the floor. “There—that's him yonder; he has taken to the mountains; five hundred guineas to the hand that grasps him first,” and he tottered to the window, and tearing aside the curtain, looked out.