At that moment came the sharp whirr of an arrow whizzing past, a wild passionate cry, a sudden rush forward, and the next instant a prostrate figure lay on the ground at the top of the slope, and over it stood Lawrence Madison, sword in hand, guarding it alike from friend and foe. Then a sudden word of command from the Irish chieftain, and down the side of the slope charged the sept of the O'Briens, completely overwhelming the English forces.
Let us draw a veil over the next scene. The customs of the Irish septs in war were very terrible. The enemy who fell into their hands alive could rarely expect mercy: while he who met their vengeance dead was sure of a form of wild revenge which makes the reader shudder.
Six hours later, the returned relics of the English army were reviewed, and the roll called, in the courtyard of Trim Castle. Ten disabled archers were answered for by others: so were twenty-seven wounded or captured spearmen. So men spoke up for Lawrence Madison, rescued alive almost by miracle, but brought home sorely wounded and insensible, and delivered into the tender care of Guenllian, to be nursed back to life if that might be.
But there was one name which won no answer of any kind, except the bare bowed heads which greeted its sound, and let it pass by them in solemn silence. And that was Roger Mortimer, Earl of Ulster and March, and Lord Lieutenant of Ireland.
The drawbridge was in place at Trim Castle; the portcullis was lifted, and the gates stood open. In the hall was a great catafalque of black and silver, where lighted tapers burned at the head and foot of the bier. And into that hall, now open to every comer, came men of all kinds and classes, and of both rival nationalities—soldiers in uniform, and squires of the neighbourhood, of the English pale, and bare-footed Irish peasantry wrapped in their tartan cloaks, to gaze upon that still white face which lay so calm and quiet now. The words which could be heard whispered were not all alike. Some of the squires and the soldiers said angrily, "He was too much for the Irish"—"He was no true Englishman." Others hushed them, with, "Nay, he was England's heir," or, "He meant well, poor young gentleman!" But at last came one old man wrapped in the national tartan, and bearing a harp upon his back, who sat down, and played upon the instrument a wild, weird, sweet keen, in the softest notes it would produce. And then, rising, he bound his harp again upon his shoulders, and went up to the black-robed priest who stood holding the sprinkler with the holy water, which each one who pleased it took and sprinkled the corpse. The old man took it from his hand, and softly scattered the fresh drops on the calm figure lying there. While he did so he spoke in Irish.
"Sweet be thy sleep, son of the Kings of Erin! Light lie the earth upon thy fair young face! May He that reigneth in the heavens count thee among the white-winged, and the dark spirits of evil flee away from thy path to glory! Sleep, son of Una the daughter of Cahil! The winds, whistling in thy soft hair, shall not awaken thee. Depart on thy wings, O blast of the north! for thou shalt not disturb his rest. Long is the night that cometh, but his eyes are heavy. Draw over him the curtain of peace, and let peace be his coverlet."
As his murmured words ended he caught the eyes of the priest.
"I was only blessing him, Father!" said the old man quietly. "Didst thou think the words in my lips were reproaches or curses? A bard of Roscommon curse the son of Cahil! We could not do it, Father. And he loved us, and died for us. They will not leave us his dust, methinks. We would enshrine it at Tara where holy Patrick preached, or on the Rock of Cashel with the dust of his royal fathers. Ah, it is not likely. They do not trust us. And maybe, at times, we have not deserved the trust. But we would not have hurt him."
"Yet you killed him!" said Mr. Robesart in a choked voice.
"We?" was the significant answer, in a pathetic tone. "God be Judge between us. You will know one day,—not, perchance, till the great doom shall be. Father!"—the old man, who had moved a little away, suddenly stopped, and fixed his eyes on Mr. Robesart. "There will be some wrong things to be set right, when that shall be."