“There is yet time to avert the danger; the people are irresolute—many actually averse to the rising; my brother will fall by his rashness.”
“Better to do so than survive in dishonour,” said the priest, snatching rudely away his hand from Herbert's grasp. “Leave me, young man—go; this is a poor and an humble roof; but never till now has it sheltered the apostate.”
“I never thought I should hear these words, here,” said Herbert, mildly; “but I cannot part from you in anger.”
“There was a time when you never left me without my blessing, Herbert,” said the priest, his eyes swimming in tears as he spoke; “kneel now, my child.”
Herbert knelt at the priest's feet, when placing his hand on the young man's head, he muttered a fervent prayer over him, saying, as he concluded—
“And may He who knows all hearts, direct and guide yours, and bring you back from your wanderings, if you have strayed from truth.”
He kissed the young man's forehead, and then covering his eyes with his hands, sat lost in his own sorrowful thoughts.
At this moment Herbert heard his name whispered by a voice without; he stole silently from the room, and on reaching the little porch, found Kerry O'Leary, who, wet through and wearied, had reached the cottage, after several hours' endeavour to cross the watercourses, swollen into torrents by the rain.
“A letter from Carrig-na-curra, sir,” said Kerry; for heartily sick of his excursion, he adopted the expedient of pretending to mistake to which brother the letter was addressed, and thus at once terminate his unpleasant mission.
The note began, “My dear son;” and, without the mention of a name, simply entreated his immediate return home. Thither Herbert felt both duty and inclination called him, and without a moment's delay left the cottage, and, accompanied by Kerry, set out for Carrig-na-curra.