I was tired, and yet when I turned in I could not sleep. On that night and many a night since I was haunted by the ghost of Garroid Jarla.
TRUE TO DEATH.
“Death!” The speaker was a tall, sinewy, athletic man, from twenty-eight to thirty years of age. The single word came from his lips short and sharp as a pistol shot. He looked around upon his auditors, who watched his hard-set features in silence. A group of a dozen peasants stood before him, the youngest not more than twenty, the oldest a man of sixty years, above the average height, thin, cadaverous looking, with hollow, sunken eyes, black as night, that contrasted strangely with the prominent, grey, bushy eyebrows. Deep lines, traced by suffering and bitter thought, furrowed his ample brow, and long, lank, white hair came down almost to his shoulders. His eyes rested upon the speaker, whose face became blanched under the terrible and earnest gaze that was fastened upon him. Though dressed in peasant garb, it was easy to see that the young man’s life was not always spent in the peaceful occupation of the peasantry; a scar on his right cheek told a story of conflict, while the deep bronze that stained his face was suggestive of travel in other lands. Born on the southern coast, his earlier years were spent in the precarious pursuit of fishing, and just as he crossed the threshold of manhood, an adventurous spirit prompted him to join some of his comrades who sailed with a French captain bound from the Shannon for Brest. He pursued the sea-faring life for a year or two, when, falling in at one of the French ports with a detachment of the Irish Brigade, then battling under the Fleur-de-lis, he took service in it, and fought in several engagements, until a bullet in the breast incapacitated him for the duties of a soldier’s life. Returning to Ireland, he found the peasantry engaged in the great agrarian struggle which produced the “Whiteboys.” His military and adventurous spirit, as well as his sympathy with his class, invested the conspiracy with a peculiar attraction for him. He became a member of it, and before many months had passed was the leader of the organisation in his district. His superior ability, and his power of swift and keen judgment, commanded the respect and confidence of his followers. On many a night before this on which our story opens, the terrible sentence of death had fallen from his lips, but never before had his comrades observed the deathlike pallor that was in his face to-night. The scene was a weird one. A long, low-roofed cave, of irregular shape, not more than twelve feet at the widest, and narrowing towards the aperture, which was scarce large enough to allow of one man at a time crouching on his hands and knees; a small opening in the roof, through which a hand might be thrust, allowed the escape of the smoke from the pine logs, blazing in the further end of the cave. As the flame leaped up and down, a thousand shadows and flickering lights danced on roof, and floor, and walls, flitting fantastically, bringing into occasional prominence, the features of the group. As the speaker uttered the single word, a log, displaced by the action of the fire, blazed fiercely, and threw its light upon his face. In the searching light every lineament was clearly portrayed, and the twitching of his mouth, and the white look that chased the bronze from his cheek, became plainly visible to the eyes of his followers.
“It is well,” said the old man. “When shall we meet again?”
The question was addressed to the leader. All eyes were fastened on him as he said with unusual slowness:
“This night fortnight.”
“Too long,” cried the old man, with a fierce cry that had a hard metallic ring in it as it struck against the walls of the cave.
“Too long,” murmured the others.