“It must be done!” he heard several exclaim; “it will strike terror into the hearts of our Saxon persecutors. The boy must die. If we let him escape they would declare that we were afraid, and that would make them tyrannise more than ever over us.” Several men now came to Dermot and led him towards the gallows which he had seen erected. At the same time an attempt was made to fire the guns placed on the height, but neither of them went off.
“The powder is bad,” Dermot thought to himself; “will it all be like that?”
It was a curious thought at such a moment. He had nerved his heart for the worst.
“Again we ask, will you yield the castle?” exclaimed several voices from the height.
“No, but if you injure that boy, vengeance will overtake you,” was the answer.
The men uttered a hoarse laugh with some fearful oaths.
“We shall soon see that. Bring him forward. Now, boy, are you prepared for heaven? You will be there in a few minutes. But who are you?” exclaimed several voices.
Before Dermot could reply, the cloak he had hitherto worn fell from his shoulders, and his dress and appearance showed that he was a very different person to the young lord, whom they fancied they had captured.
None of those present, however, seemed to know him. “If he belongs to these parts he must understand what we have said,” exclaimed O’Higgins, “and if so, he may have gained more of our secrets than he should know, a sufficient reason, if there were no other, to hang him. Who are you?” again asked O’Higgins; “say, boy.”
“I am the son of Widow O’Neill,” he answered, without trepidation, in the native Irish in which he was addressed, “and I am her mainstay and support. If you hang me you will bring the malediction of Heaven, and the widow’s curse will rest upon you. If I know your secrets, I am not about to divulge them; I am too much of an Irishman to do that, if I give you my promise that I will not.”