“While I should become less so,” interrupted Kate, rapidly; “no, no; my duties are here,” and she pointed to the old man, who, with an expression of stupid fatuity, sat with his hands clasped, and his eyes fixed on vacancy. “Do not not make me less equal to my task, by calling on me for such a pledge. Besides,” added she, with a smile, “you are too truly English, to suggest a divided allegiance; we are friends; but we can never be more.”
Travers pressed the white hand to his lips without a word, and the moment after his horse was heard descending the causeway, as with desperate speed he hurried from the spot so fatal to all his hopes.
Scarcely had Frederick left the castle, when a chaise and four, urged to the utmost speed, dashed up to the door, and Sir Archy, followed by Herbert, jumped out. The old man, travel-stained and splashed, held an open paper in his hand, and cried aloud, as he entered the drawing-room—
“He's pardoned, he's pardoned—a free pardon to Mark!”
“He's gone, he's away to France,” said Kate, as fearing to awaken the O'Donoghue to any exertion of intelligence, she pointed cautiously towards him.
“All the better, my sweet lassie,” cried M'Nab, folding her in his arms; “his arm will not be the less bold in battle, because no unforgiven treason weighs upon his heart. But my brother, what ails him?—he does not seem to notice me.”
“He is ill—my father is ill,” said Herbert, with a terrified accent.
“He is worse,” whispered M'Nab to himself, as passing his hand within the waistcoat, he laid it on his heart.
It was so—the courage that withstood every assault of evil fortune—every calamity which poverty and distress can bring down—failed at last;—the strong heart was broken—the O'Donoghue was dead.