“My dearest brother,” cried Herbert, with streaming eyes.
“My own dear Herbert, forgive me,” said Mark, as he flung his arm round his neck. “These bursts of passion come over me after long and weary thoughts. I am tired to-day. Tell me, how are they all at Carrig-na-curra?”
“Well, and, I would say, happy, Mark, were it not for their anxieties about you. My uncle heard some news to-day so threatening in its nature, that he has set out for Dublin post haste, and merely wrote these few lines, which he gave me for you before he started.”
Mark read the paper twice over, and then tearing it, threw the fragments at his feet, while he muttered—
“I cannot, I must not leave this.”
“But your safety depends on it, Mark—so, my uncle pressed upon me. The danger is imminent, and, he said, fatal.”
“So would it be, were I to leave my post. I cannot tell you, Herbert—I dare not reveal to you what our oath forbids me:—but here I must remain.”
“And this dress, Mark—why increase the risk you run by a uniform which actually designates treason?”
“Who will dare to tell me so?” cried Mark, impetuously. “The uniform is that of a French grenadier—the service whose toil is glory, and whose cause is liberty. It is enough that I do not wear it without authority. You can satisfy yourself on that head soon. Read this,” and he unfolded a paper, which, bearing the arms and seal of the French Republic, purported to be a commission as Lieutenant in Hoche's own regiment of grenadiers, conferred on Mark O'Donoghue in testimony of esteem for his fidelity to the cause of Irish independence. “You are surprised that I can read the language, Herbert,” said he, smiling; “but I have laboured hard this summer, and, with Kate's good aid, have made some progress.”
“And is your dream of Irish independence brought so low as this, Mark—that the freedom you speak of must be won by an alien's valour?”