“Your cousin is safe, Miss O'Donoghue—he has reached the fleet, and is already on his way to France.”
“Thank God!” cried Kate fervently, as she fell upon her uncle's shoulders, and whispered the tidings into his ear.
The old man looked up and stared wildly around him.
“Where's Mark, my love—where did you say he was?”
“He's safe, uncle—he's on board of a French ship, and bound for France, beyond the reach of danger.”
“For France! And has he left me—has he deserted his old father?”
“His life was in peril, sir,” whispered Kate, who, stung by the old man's selfishness, spoke almost angrily.
“My boy has abandoned me,” muttered the O'Donoghue, the one idea, absorbing all others, occupied his mind, and left him deaf to every explanation or remonstrance.
“You are right, Miss O'Donoghue,” said Travers, gently, “his danger was most imminent—the evidence against him was conclusive and complete; and although one of the principal witnesses could not have appeared, Lanty Lawler——”
“And was he an informer?”