The sound of voices and steps approached. Buchanan, de Ruthven, and St. Clare, parted from each other. “It will be a dreadful spectacle to see the slaughter that shall follow,” said St. Clare. “Brothers and fathers shall fight against each other. The gathering storm has burst from within: it shall overwhelm the land. One desperate effort shall be made for freedom. Hands and hearts shall unite firm to shake off the shackles of tyranny—to support the rights of man—the glorious cause of independence. What though in vain we struggle—what though the sun that rose so bright in promise may set in darkness—the splendid hope was conceived—the daring effort was made; and many a brave heart shall die in the sacred cause. What though our successors be slaves, aye, willing slaves, shall not the proud survivor exult in the memory of the past! Fate itself cannot snatch from us that which once has been. The storms of contention may cease—the goaded victims may bear every repeated lash; and in apathy and misery may kneel before the feet of the tyrants who forget their vow. But the spirit of liberty once flourished at least; and every name that perishes in its cause shall stand emblazoned in eternal splendour—glorious in brightness, though not immortal in success.”
CHAPTER CIV.
“Hark!” said the prophetess: “’tis the screams of despair and agony:—my countrymen are defeated:—they fall:—but they do not fly. No human soul can endure this suspense:—all is dark and terrible: the distant roar of artillery; the noise of conflict; the wild tumultuous cries of war; the ceaseless deafening fire.—Behold the rolling volumes of smoke, as they issue from the glen!—What troop of horse comes riding over the down?—I too have fought. This hand has dyed itself in the blood of a human being; this breast is pierced; but the pang I feel is not from the wound of the bayonet.—Hark! how the trumpet echoes from afar beyond the mountains.—They halt—they obey my last commands—they light the beacons on the hill! Belfont and St. Alvin shall blaze; the seat of his fathers shall fall; and with their ashes, mine shall not mingle! Glenarvon, farewell! Even in death I have not forgiven thee!—Come, tardy steed, bear me once again; and then both horse and rider shall rest in peace for ever.”
It was about the second hour of night when St. Clare reached Inis Tara, and stood suspended between terror and exultation, as she watched the clouds of smoke and fire which burst from the turrets of Belfont. The ranks were every where broken: soldiers in pursuit were seen in detached parties, scouring over every part of the country: the valley of Altamonte rang with the savage contest, as horse to horse, and man to man, opposed each other. The pike and bayonet glittered in the moon-beam; and the distant discharge of musketry, with the yell of triumph, and the groans of despair, echoed mournfully upon the blast. Elinor rose upon her panting steed to gaze with eager eyes towards Belfont.
It was not the reflection of the kindling fires that spread so deathlike a hue over her lips and face. She was bleeding to death from her wounds, while her eye darted forth, as if intently watching, with alternate hope and terror, that which none but herself could see—it was a man and horse advancing with furious haste from the smoke and flames, in which he had appeared involved. He bore a lovely burthen in his arms, and shewing her Clare of Costolly as he passed. “I have fulfilled your desire, proud woman,” he cried: “the castle shall burn to the earth: the blood of every enemy to his country shall be spilt. I have saved the son of Glenarvon; and when I have placed him in safety, shall de Ruthven be as dear?” “Take my thanks,” said Elinor faintly, as the blood continued to flow from her wounds. “Bear that boy to my aunt, the Abbess of Glanaa: tell her to cherish him for my sake. Sometimes speak to him of St. Clare.
“Now, see the flame of vengeance how it rises upon my view. Burn, fire; burn. Let the flames ascend, even to the Heavens. So fierce and bright are the last fires of love, now quenched, for ever and for ever. The seat of his ancestors shall fall to the lowest earth—dust to dust—earth to earth. What is the pride of man?—The dream of life is past; the song of the wild harper has ceased; famine, war, and slavery, shall encompass my country.
“But yet all its fond recollections suppressing,
One last dying wish this sad bosom shall draw:
O, Erin, an exile bequeaths thee his blessing;
Land of my forefathers, Erin go brah.”