“Wretch!” cried the duke, rushing forward:—but in vain his haste. With the strength of desperate guilt, the Italian had grasped the boy, and bearing him in sudden haste to the edge of the frightful chasm, he was on the point of throwing himself and the child from the top of it, when the duke, with a strong grasp, seizing him by the cloak, forcibly detained him.—“Wretch,” he cried, “live to feel a father’s vengeance!—live to——” “To restore your son,” said Glenarvon, with a hypocritical smile, turning round and gazing on the duke. “Ha, whom do I behold! no Italian, no Viviani, but Glenarvon.” “Yes, and to me, to me alone, you owe the safety of your child. Your sister decreed his death—I sav’d him. Now strike this bosom if you will.”—“What are you? Who are you?” said the duke. “Is it now alone that you know Glenarvon?” he replied with a sneer. “I suspected this; but that name shall not save you.”—“Nothing can save me,” said Glenarvon, mournfully. “All hell is raging in my bosom. My brain is on fire. You cannot add to my calamities.” “Why a second time attempt the life of my child?” “Despair prompted me to the deed,” said Glenarvon, putting his hand to his head: “all is not right here—madness has fallen on me.” “Live, miserable sinner,” said the duke, looking upon him with contempt: “you are too base to die—I dare not raise my arm against you.” “Yet I am defenceless,” said Glenarvon, with a bitter smile, throwing the dagger to the ground. “Depart for ever from me,” said the duke—“your presence here is terrible to all.”
Zerbellini now knelt before his father, who, straining him closely to his bosom, wept over him.—In a moment, yells and cries were heard; and a thousand torches illumined the wood. Some stood in horror to contemplate the murdered form of Lady Margaret; others, with shouts of triumph, conveyed the heir of Delaval to his home. Mrs. Seymour, Mac Allain, and others, received with transport the long lost boy: shouts of delight and cheers, long and repeated, proclaimed his return. The rumour of these events spread far and wide; the concourse of people who crowded around to hear and inquire, and see their young lord, was immense.
A mournful silence succeeded. Lady Margaret’s body was conveyed to the castle. Buchanan followed in hopeless grief: he prest the duke’s hand; then rushed from his presence. He sought St. Clare. “Where is Glenarvon?” he cried. “In his blood, in his blood, I must revenge my own wrongs and a mother’s death.” Glenarvon was gone. One only attendant had followed him, O’Kelly, who had prepared every thing for his flight. Upon that night they had made their escape, O’Kelly, either ignorant of his master’s crimes, or willing to appear so, tried severely but faithful to the last. They sailed: they reached the English shore; and before the rumour of these events could have had time to spread, Glenarvon had taken the command of his ship, following with intent to join the British fleet, far away from his enemies and his friends.
Macpherson was immediately seized. He acknowledged that Lord Glenarvon, driven to the necessity of concealing himself, had, with Lady Margaret and Count Gondimar’s assistance, assumed the name of Viviani, until the time when he appeared in his own character at St. Alvin’s Priory. The rest of the confession he had privately made concerning the child was found to be true. Witnesses were called. The mother of Billy Kendall and La Crusca corroborated the fact. La Crusca and Macpherson received sentence of death.
CHAPTER CIII.
The heart sometimes swells with a forethought of approaching dissolution; and Glenarvon, as he had cast many a homeward glance upon his own native mountains, knew that he beheld them for the last time. Turning with sadness towards them, “Farewell to Ireland,” he cried; “and may better hearts support her rights, and revenge her wrongs! I must away.” Arrived in England, he travelled in haste; nor paused till he gained the port in which his ship was stationed. He sailed in a fair frigate with a gallant crew, and no spirit amongst them was so light, and no heart appeared more brave. Yet he was ill in health; and some observed that he drank much, and oft, and that he started from his own thoughts; then laughed and talked with eagerness, as if desirous to forget them. “I shall die in this engagement,” he said, addressing his first lieutenant. “Hardhead, I shall die; but I care not. Only this remember—whatever other ships may do, let the Emerald be first and last in action. This is Glenarvon’s command.—Say, shall it be obeyed?”——Upon the night after Lord Glenarvon had made his escape from Ireland, and the heir of Delaval had been restored to his father, a stranger stood in the outer gates of St. Alvin Priory—It was the maniac La Crusca, denouncing woe, and woe upon Glenarvon. St. Clare marked him as she returned to the Wizzard’s Glen, and, deeply agitated, prepared to meet her followers. It was late when the company were assembled. A flash of agony darted from her eyes, whilst with a forced smile, she informed them that Lord Glenarvon had disgraced himself for ever; and, lastly, had abandoned his country’s cause. “Shame on the dastard!” exclaimed one. “We’ll burn his castle,” cried another. “Let us delay no longer,” was murmured by all. “There are false friends among us. This is the night for action. To-morrow—who can look beyond to-morrow?” “Where is Cormac O’Leary?” said St. Clare. “He has been bribed to forsake us.” “Where is Cobb O’Connor?” “He is appointed to a commission in the militia, but will serve us at the moment.” “Trust not the faithless varlet: they who take bribes deserve no trust.”
“Oh, God!” cried St. Clare indignantly; “have I lived to see my country bleeding; and is there not one of her children firm by her to the last?” “We are all united, all ready to stand, and die, for our liberty,” replied her eager followers. “Lead on: the hour is at hand. At the given signal, hundreds, nay, thousands, in every part of the kingdom, shall rush at once to arms, and fight gallantly for the rights of man. The blast of the horn shall echo through the mountains, and, like the lava in torrents of fire, we will pour down upon the tyrants who oppress us. Lead on, St. Clare: hearts of iron attend you. One soul unites us—one spirit actuates our desires: from the boundaries of the north, to the last southern point of the island, all await the signal.” “Hear it kings and oppressors of the earth,” said St. Clare: “hear it, and tremble on your thrones. It is the voice of the people, the voice of children you have trampled upon, and betrayed. What enemy is so deadly as an injured friend?”
Saying this, and rushing from the applause with which this meeting concluded, she turned to the topmost heights of Inis Tara, and gazed with melancholy upon the turrets of Belfont. Splendid was the setting ray of the sun upon the western wave: calm was the scene before her: and the evening breeze blew softly around. Then placing herself near her harp, she struck for the last time its chords. Niel Carter and Tyrone had followed her. Buchanan, and de Ruthven, Glenarvon’s cousin, stood by her side. “Play again on thy harp the sweet sounds that are dear to me. Sing the songs of other days,” he said. “Oh, look not sad, St. Clare: I never will abandon thee.” “My name is branded with infamy,” she cried: “dishonour and reproach assail me on every side. Black are the portals of hell—black are the fiends that await to seize my soul—but more black is the heart of iron that has betrayed me. Yet I will sing the song of the wild harper. I will sing for you the song of my own native land, of peace and joy, which never more must be mine.”
“Hark! what shriek of agony is that?”—“I hear nothing.” “It was his dying groan.——What means your altered brow, that hurried look?” It was the sudden inspiration of despair. Her eye fixed itself on distant space in wild alarm—her hair streamed—as in a low and hurried tone she thus exclaimed, whilst gazing on the blue vault of heaven:
“Curs’d be the fiend’s detested art,