'Not hope of his recovery, Master Allan,' said Deborah, with stern and still despair. 'I know death when I see it. You have held out hope before; yet make him live till my brother comes. Ye hear me, Master Allan?'
'Ay, Mistress Fleming; I will use my poor skill to the utmost. Bear up. I will return to-night, Mistress Fleming;' and with a courtly bow, he left her.
But for Deborah, she kneeled beside her father, and with old days and old memories her heart was like to break. Jordan was weeping bitterly; she heard the old man's sobs; but on her own heart a still Hand was laid, enforcing strength and calmness. For two things she prayed: that Charlie might come in time; and that her father might be himself before he died, to hear that Charlie had ever been true to him. And so through the long night she watched; and old Marjory oft slept and nodded, as age and dulled senses will; and though Sir Vincent at times called plaintively for his Deb, his 'Rose of Enderby,' his more frequent plaint was for his boy.
CHAPTER THE THIRD.
In those days there were wild doings in Ireland. 'Liberty and Reform' were the watch-words which did then, and ever will, electrify the fiery, rebellious, ardent spirits that flocked under one banner to struggle and to die. Irish and French met and fought together against the iron hand of England; thousands perished; the fated isle ran blood.
It is the eve of a battle. Gray dawn is slowly breaking over forest and mountain, where strange and wonderful echoes are wont to be heard amongst the rocks and caves; but in the gray of this dread dawn, on the eve of battle and blood, all seems silent as the grave, saving the thunderous roar of the waterfall in its descent into the lake, that seems to make the silence the more intense.
But hark! through the mist of morning a bugle suddenly sounds loud and clear; and when it ceases—far away, a spirit-bugle answers. A soldier, driven to frenzy, they say, by an insulting taunt from a superior officer, had struck him down in the heat of the instant. Short shrift in those days; the man has been tried, condemned, and is about to be led out to execution. So, loud and clear the bugle calls: 'Come forth to thy death,' as plain as a human voice could speak; and he whom it summons cannot mistake that voice, and comes forth guarded, but with steady step, and head erect and soldierly; while in front of him bristles a long line of musketry, and behind yawns an open grave. The condemned soldier is Charles Fleming. Have his ungovernable passions and his strong uncurbed will brought him to this? Ay; and the stubborn pride which has ever been his bane, leads him now to die without that word of extenuation or appeal which even yet might save him.
Yet who may tell how that proud heart swells well-nigh to breaking beneath the broad breast, as he thinks on the old white-haired father and his son's death of shame! He sees too the shadows on the woods of Enderby. He hears the voice of a little sister, calling 'Charlie, Charlie!' at play. And the trees are waving their long arms round the old, old home; and his little playmate Margaret—his young wife Margaret—stands beneath and smiles. And then his bold eyes ask for death, merciful death, which shall put him out of his anguish. Yet hold! Even as the muskets are raised, but ere the triggers are pressed, there is a wild shriek of 'Rescue! rescue! Pardon! pardon for Charles Fleming!'
And there, headlong down the way—while all reel back before him—rides one spurring for life or death, his horse in a lather of foam, his head bare, and his long hair flying in the wind. In one hand he clenches a packet, and waves it above his head—the Royal pardon! He reaches them; he stays the deadly fire with his wild outstretched arms raised to heaven, with white face and blazing eyes, and lips which fail to speak. But one could have undertaken and accomplished that famous ride; but one could have saved him in this strait. In male disguise, that one proves to be Margaret Dinning! ''Tis my wife!' cried Charles Fleming in piercing accents; ''tis my wife Margaret!' And with that, the king's messenger sways in the saddle, and is supported to the ground by the commanding officer....