“No, Father, no,” cried he, wildly; “be firm, be resolute; if this unhappy land is to be the scene of bloodshed, let not her sons be found in opposing ranks.”
“This from you, Herbert!” said Mark, reproachfully, as he fixed a cold, stern gaze upon his brother.
“And why not from him,” said the priest, hastily. “Is he not an Irishman in heart and spirit? Is not the land as dear to him as to us?”
“I give you joy upon the alliance, Father,” said Mark, with a scornful laugh. “Herbert is a Protestant.”
“What!—did I hear aright?” said the old man, as with a face pale as death, he tottered forwards, and caught the youth by either arm. “Is this true, Herbert? Tell me, boy, this instant, that it is not so.”
“It is true, sir, most true; and if I have hitherto spared you the pain it might occasion you, believe me it was not from any shame the avowal might cost me.”
The priest staggered back, and fell heavily into a chair; a livid hue spread itself over his features, and his eyes grew glassy and lustreless.
“We may well be wretched and miserable,” exclaimed he with a faint sigh, “when false to heaven, who is to wonder that we are traitors to each other.”
The French officer—for such he was—muttered some words into Mark's ear, who replied—“I cannot blame you for feeing impatient; this is no time for fooling. Now for the glen. Farewell, Father. Herbert, we'll meet again soon;” and without waiting to hear more, he hastened from the room with his companion.
Herbert stood for a second or two undecided. He wished to say something, yet knew not what, or how. At last approaching the old man's chair, he said—