The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“Ah, I knew it,” said the boy. “I saw how you clenched your fist, and your eyes wor shinin’ like sparks of fire, and I knew it was darin’ them he was, in the book there. What did he do after, Master Herbert? Just tell me that, sir.”

“He went out in his chariot – ”

“Say it like himself first, sir, av it’s plazin’ to ye,” said he, with a most imploring look of entreaty. “I do be glad to hear it out of the book.”

The youth, thus entreated, resumed the volume, and read on for several minutes without stopping.

“Oh, that’s grand!” said the boy, in a burst of enthusiasm. “‘Tis for all the world the way the thunder comes down the glen – moanin’ first, far off on the mountains, and then swellin’ into a big roar, and afterwards going clap! clap! like a giant clapping his hands. Did he kill the inimy, master dear?”

“No, he was killed himself, and his body dragged over the battlefield.”

“Wirra, wirra, wirra!” broke in the child, while he rung his hands, and burst forth into a torrent of tumultuous grief.

“He was killed, Mickey, and listen to the lament of his friends for his death.”

Scarcely had the youth read a few lines, when Sir Marmaduke, advancing a little farther, his shadow fell across the chamber. The youth sprang up at once, and came towards them. The flush of surprise – it might be, too, of shame – was on his features; but there was less of awkwardness than many might have exhibited in the manner of his address, as he said —

“Father Luke is from home, sir. He has been sent for to Ballyvourney – ”

“You are his relation, I presume?” said Sir Marmaduke, without letting him finish his speech.

“I am his pupil,” replied the youth, with a tone in which offended pride was clearly confessed.

“I ask pardon,” said the baronet hastily. “It was merely that I might convey my respectful greetings to the worthy father that I asked the question. Perhaps you will allow me to trespass so far upon you, and say, that Sir Marmaduke Travers has been here.”

“While Sir Marmaduke was speaking, the youth’s eyes were fixed with a steadfast gaze on the features of the young girl, of whose presence till then he seemed unconscious. Fixed and earnest as his stare was, there was nothing in it of rudeness, still less of insult. It was the unequivocal expression of astonishment, the suddenly-awakened sense of admiration in one, on whom, till that very instant, beauty had shed no fascination. His eyes were bent upon her, as Sir Marmaduke thus finished speaking, and the old man smiled as he saw the wonder-struck admiration of the boy.

“You will please to say Sir Marmaduke Travers,” repeated he once more, to recall the scattered senses of the youth.

“And his daughter?” murmured the other, as he still continued to stare at her.

“Yes, his daughter,” replied Sir Marmaduke, smiling. “May I ask if there be no shorter road back to ‘the Lodge,’ than that yonder? for I perceive it is full two hours later than I suspected.”

“None for those on horseback. The mountain path lies yonder, but even on foot it is not without danger.”

“Come, then, Sybella; let us lose no time. We must ride briskly, to reach home by day-light. We are late enough already.”

“Too late, if you ride not very fast,” replied the youth. “The rain has fallen heavily on the mountains this afternoon. See that waterfall yonder. I crossed it dry-shod at day-break, and now, it is a cataract. This river rises rapidly, and in a single night’s rain I have seen the valley all one lake.”

“What are we to do then?” cried Miss Travers, eagerly, for now she felt self-reproach at her refusal to take a groom along with them, and was vexed with herself, as well as uneasy for her father.

“Keep the left of the valley till you reach the tall black rock they call ‘the pulpit’ – you know it, at least you must have seen it, as you came along – then cross the stream, it will be fordable enough by that time, and make the best of your way along under the cliffs, till you arrive at the broken bridge – the two buttresses, I mean. Re-cross the stream there, and gain the meadows, and in some hundred yards you are safe upon the high road. Away then; lose no more time, now; a minute is all the space between risk and safety;” and with these words he sprang forward, and lifted the young girl to her saddle, ere she had time or forethought to decline the service.

“May we not know the name of our kind adviser?” asked Sir Marmaduke, as he mounted his horse.

“Hark! there it comes!” said the youth, pointing upwards to the brow of a cliff, over which a leaping torrent had just bounded. “The mountain lakes are flooded, when Derrybahn is spouting. Away! away! if you care for safety.”

They turned their horses’ heads as he spoke, and with a hasty “good bye” they spurred forwards. Short as the time had been since they travelled the same path, the scene was wonderfully changed; the placid stream that stole along, murmuring over its gravelly bed, now rushed onward with a yellow current streaked with white foam; the tiny rivulets that came in slender drops upon the road-side, were now become continuous streams of water, hurrying on to bear their tribute to the river. The sky itself was black and louring, resting midway on the mountains, or drifting past in heavy clouds, while no breeze was stirring below. The many torrents as they fell, filled the air with a low monotonous sound, like the noise of tree tops moved by a distant-storm.

“I thought I heard a voice calling to us,” said Sir Marmaduke, as for the first time they slackened their pace, to clear several loose stones that obstructed the way – “did you hear it?”

“I half thought so, too,” replied his daughter; “but I can see no one near. There it is again!”

They halted and listened; but the swelling uproar of the waterfalls drowned every sound, and they spurred forward once more, fearing to loiter longer; yet, both as they went, thought they could trace the words, “come back, come back;” but from some strange dread of communicating fears that might not be real, neither told the other.

“He said the left side of the valley; but surely he mistook: see how the water has gained here, and the opposite bank seems dry.”

“Let us follow the advice, father,” cried Sybella, “we have no guidance save his; he could not – would not deceive us, Is it not grand! with all its danger, I can admire it.”

As she spoke, a tremendous clap of thunder broke above their heads, and made the valley tremble with the sound, while, as if by the shock the charged clouds were rent open, and the rain descended in torrents. With the swooping gush of the ocean spray, storm-lashed and drifted, the rain came down, wrapping in misty darkness every object around them. And now, the swollen cataracts tore madly down the mountain sides, leaping from crag to crag, and rending the clayey soil in deep clefts and gashes. Again the thunder pealed out, and every echo sent hack the sound, till the whole glen vibrated with the deafening clamour. Still they sped onward. The terrified horses strained every limb, and dashing madly on – mid rock and rushing water they went, now, clearing at a bound the course of some gushing stream – now, breasting the beating rain with vigorous chest.

The storm increased; the howling wind joined with the deep-toned thunder into one long continuous roar, that seemed to shake the very air itself.

“Yonder!” said the father, as he pointed to the tall dark pinnacle of rock, known by the country people as “the Pulpit” – “yonder!”

Sybella strained her eye to see through the dense beating rain, and at last caught sight of the huge mass, around whose summit the charged clouds were flying.

“We must cross the river in this place,” said the old man, as he suddenly checked his horse, and looked with terrified gaze on the swollen stream that came boiling and foaming over to where they stood, with branches of trees and fragments of rock rolling onward in the tide. “The youth told us of this spot.”

“Let us not hesitate, father,” cried the young girl, with a tone of firm, resolute daring she had not used before – “remember what he said, a minute may save or ruin us. Great heaven! what is that?”

A terrific shriek followed her words, and she fell with her head upon her horse’s mane; a broad flash of lightning had burst from a dark cloud, and came with vivid force upon her eyeballs.

“Father, dear father, my sight is gone,” she screamed aloud, as lifting up her head she rubbed the orbs now paralyzed by the shock.

“My child, my child!” cried the old man, with the piercing shriek of a breaking heart; “look on me, look towards me. Oh, say that you can see me, now – my brain is turning.”

“Oh God, I thank thee!” said the terrified girl, as once more her vision was restored, and, dimly, objects began to form themselves before her.

With bare head and upturned eyes, the aged man looked up, and poured forth his prayer of thankfulness to heaven. The raging storm beat on his brow unfelt; his thoughts were soaring to the Throne of Mercies, and knew not earth, nor all its sorrows.

A clap of thunder at the moment broke from the dense cloud above them, and then, in quick succession, like the pealing of artillery, came several more, while the forked lightning shot to and fro, and at last, as if the very earth was riven to its centre, a low booming sound was heard amid the clouds; the darkness grew thicker, and a crash followed that shook the ground beneath them, and splashed the wild waves on every side. The spray sprung madly up, while the roaring of the stream grew louder; the clouds swept past, and the tall Pulpit rock was gone! Struck by lightning, it had rolled from its centre, and fallen across the river, the gushing waters of which poured over it in floods, and fell in white sheets of foam and spray beyond it.

“God is near us, my child,” said the old man with fervour; “let us onward.”

Her streaming eyes turned on him one look of affection – the emblem of a heart’s love – and she prepared to follow.

To return was now impossible, the river had already extended the whole way across the valley in the rear; the only chance of safety lay in front.

“Keep by my side, dearest,” said the father, as he rode first into the stream, and tried to head the terrified animal against the current.

“I am near you, father, fear not for me,” said she firmly, her hold heart nerved to the danger.

For some seconds the affrighted horses seemed rooted to the earth, and stood amid the boiling current as if spell-bound; a fragment of a tree, however, in its course, struck the flank of the leading horse, and he sprung madly forward, followed by the other. Now, breasting the stream – now, sinking to the mane beneath it, the noble beasts struggled fiercely on till near the spot, where the Pulpit-rock had left a space between it and the opposite bank, and here, a vast volume of water now poured along unchecked by any barrier.

“To my side – near me, dearest – near me,” cried the father, as his horse dashed into the seething flood and sunk above the crest beneath it.

“I cannot, father – I cannot,” screamed the affrighted girl, as with a bound of terror her horse sprang back from the chasm, and refused to follow. The old man heard not the words – the current had swept him far down into the stream, amid the rent branches and the rolling rocks – “My child, my child,” the only accents heard above the raging din.