“Ah, then, ’tis Frank—Frank O’Mahony,” said she. “Shure I nursed your mother, avourneen, on my knee. But ’tis no wondher the boys didn’t know you, for your own mother wouldn’t know you with the wet clay of the mountain plastered over your face, and ’tis you are welcome, Frank avourneen, in daylight or in dark, and shure no true Rapparee need close the doore again your father’s son.”
When the old woman had done speaking, the man who had seized me clasped my hand.
“Frank, my boy,” said he, “you’re welcome—welcome as the flowers of May. Make room for him there, comrades; don’t you see the boy is cowld and wet.”
And they made a place for me, and the old woman brewed a steaming jug of poteen, and she said to the others that I wasn’t to be asked a question until I had taken some of her mountain medicine.
Hardly had I taken the medicine when I felt pretty comfortable, and then when I got time to look about me I saw I was in something like a cave of large dimensions, half of which was in shadow owing to the imperfect light.
About half-a-dozen men came in shortly after my arrival, and then the whole force numbered thirty.
When all who had been expected had come, the captain, who was the man who had seized me said—addressing me:—
“Help and comfort we always got from your father, Frank O’Mahony. Ah, and if the truth were known, my boy, he spent many a night on the hills with the Rapparees. May Heaven be his bed to-night. You are over young yet, but still not too young to strike a blow for Ireland. There isn’t a man here who wouldn’t die for you if necessary.”
“I hope to strike a blow for Ireland,” I said, “but word has come from my uncle, Colonel O’Mahony, that he wishes me to go to France and join him.” “God bless the Colonel, wherever he is,” said the captain, “he’ll never miss the chance, but would to God he was with us at home. The best—the best and the bravest have gone away from us.”