Kate Dundas’s most bitter enemies cannot deny that she is a beautiful woman.  Dangerous she may be a modern Circe, many of whose admirers find their way to Kilmainham, but, above and before everything else, the woman is beautiful.  But it is not her face nor her figure, lithe and lissom for all its ripe maturity, that so holds men’s hearts in thrall.  There is a charm about her, a curious magnetic power that is even more dangerous than her beauty.

“I would not care to see much of your Mrs. Dundas,” an old squire once said, talking of her.  “I never knew but one woman who had the same coaxing, fooling ways with her, and, begorra, sir, she was a demon in petticoats!”

But that was only the opinion of a blunt old farmer; Launce Blake knows her a great deal better, or thinks he does.  In his own way he is almost as handsome as she is; a tall fair man, with eyes so dark a gray that they look black under their thick lashes and a smile as sweet as a woman’s.  But, as he sits in Mrs. Dundas’s pretty room to-night, he is not smiling he has come here from Colonel Frenche’s, as his father guessed he would he is looking very stern indeed, and “altogether unmanageable,” as Kate Dundas says to herself.  It is not the first time by many that she has seen him in this mood.  Launce is not one of her humble adorers, and perhaps she likes him all the better on that account.

“I am sure I don’t know why you should be so angry,” she is saying, in her pretty soft voice, which has just a touch of the Devonshire accent in it.  “The man is nothing to me; but since he brought a letter from the poor major’s old friend, Major Cregan, I had to be civil to him.  I couldn’t could I, now” coaxingly “send him back again?”

Launce listens gravely; it is quite a long speech for her to make as a rule, her eyes, her slow sweet smiles, speak for her.

“That sounds very well and it may be true, as far as it goes but it is not all the truth.”

“Oh, Launce, how unkind you are!” She is lying back in her chair, the lamplight falling upon her bare arms, her round white throat, and the diamond cross that sparkles on her bosom.

Her dress of some soft yellow stuff that shines like silk and drapes like velvet.  She wears no flowers or ornaments of any kind, except the cross on her breast and some old-fashioned gold pins in her hair.  Launce Blake, as he looks at her, feels the glamour of her beauty stealing over him like a spell.

His heart is beating furiously; his jealousy and distrust are waning fast before the passion of his love that is grown to be a part of his life.

“Is it any wonder that I am racked with fear?  You are so beautiful, any man must love you!  And this Hunter who is he, that he should take his place in the house more like the master of it than a mere guest?  And what right has he to keep every one away from you?”

“Dear” she laughs softly; she has such an exquisite laugh liquid, entrancing “the man is ridiculous, I grant you.  But then so many men are ridiculous!”

Is she laughing at him?  The eyes raised to his have just a touch of mockery in their lustrous depths, or he fancies they have.  He is never quite sure of her this woman who holds him by so strong a tie.  There are times when he is driven half frantic by her “humor,” just as there are times when he thinks himself the happiest man on earth because she loves him.

“We are all fools where a woman is concerned!” he says bluntly, and walks to one of the windows, setting it wide open, and letting the wind rush in with a shriek that makes Mrs. Dundas start in her chair.

“Oh, what a terrible night!” she says shivering.  “I do not envy you your ride over the bog, if you take that road.”

“Of course I shall take it, as usual!  Why not?”

She is looking at him, a curious anxiety in her drooping eyes.

“But Launce, is it safe as things are now?”

“Safe or not, I choose to take it,” he says coldly.

“But Mr. Hunter was saying only to-day that you are too venturesome.”

“Mr. Hunter is an Englishman and, if he is not misjudged, a spy; it is only natural he should think so.”

“A spy?” she repeats, paling a little and looking at him she has risen, and is standing with him before the open window with eager, questioning eyes.  “Who says he is a spy?”

“More people than I could name are of that opinion.”

“But do you think he is a spy, Launce?”

“Faith, I neither know nor care what he is!  He is not a gentleman!  Anyone could see that with half an eye!”

She turns from him with a little passionate gesture, and her face though he cannot see it looks for an instant almost cruel in its anger.

“You are so fastidious, dear.  We cannot all be Blakes of Donaghmore, you know.”

“We can all speak the truth, I hope, and the fellow doesn’t even do that.”

“Ah!” she says coldly.  “Then it would be useless to ask you to stay to dinner and spend the evening in such company?”

It is what he has been longing to do; but something in her voice or her face as she turns aside jars upon him.  As they stand there they can hear the thud of horses’ hoofs coming at a rapid pace down the Boyne road it is Mrs. Dundas’s guests returning.  It is getting dark fast now, and the wind is already furious in its strength as it sweeps down from the mountains.

“Do shut that window, Launce, or we shall have all the lamps blown out!”

He does her bidding mechanically; then he turns and looks at her standing beside him in her pretty gown, the one woman, so he tells himself, who is all in all to him.

Nearer and nearer come the hoof-beats; the precious moments are flying fast; and if they are to make up their little quarrel to-night there is no time to lose.

“I am going now, Kate.  Am I to go like this?”

“You are so cross, Launce,” she murmurs.

“Nay, give things their right names!  Say I am jealous madly jealous, because I am in love!”

“Oh, if you are only jealous, dear ”

“You know I am as jealous as ever poor Othello was.”

“And with as little cause,” she whispered softly, nestling her cheek against his shoulder.

The riders are at the gate now; in another minute they will be in the house; taking her in his arms, Launce kisses her and lets her go.

“My darling, how could I live till to-morrow if we had parted in anger now?” he whispers, looking at her with eager impassioned eyes.

Is it fancy, or does the face raised to his suddenly become harsh and wan?  He looks down at her, startled; but there is no time for questions the gentlemen are in the hall now, all talking and laughing at once, it would appear, by the noise they make, and he must go.

A light rain is falling as he passes out at the gate; he will have to walk home, for he sent his horse back by the groom more than an hour ago.  The road is intensely dark; but that is nothing to him he knows every inch of the way, just as he knows every inch of the dangerous path across the bog which he will have to take to reach Donaghmore.  In spite of the wind there is a mist a low clinging gray mist which hides the fields, nay, the very hedgerows between which he walks, and carries sounds the bark of a dog, the shout of some lad out after his cattle[,] even the echoes of steps far ahead of him on the road in the most marvelous manner.  He is just turning aside to step down into the bog path when a dim shape flits out, like a ghost, from the midst and bars his way.

“Who is there?” he says gruffly.  “What do you want?”

“Thank goodness, it’s your honor’s self!” a woman’s voice answers timidly.  “I am Patsy McCann, Mr. Launce.  Ye mind me?”

“To be sure, Patsy!  But what on earth brings you here at this hour, and in such a storm too?  I hope you don’t come so far from home to do your courting, Patsy?”

“Troth, an coorting’s not in my head, yer honor!  I’ve other and blacker thoughts to trouble me!”

“I’m sorry for that, Patsy.”

He speaks kindly it is his nature to speak kindly to a woman but he is impatient to get home.

“Whist!” the girl whispers, pressing closer to him, till he can see her eyes raised eagerly to his.  “Don’t go for to cross the bog to-night, Misther Launce.  Shure the longest way round is the shortest way home!  Don’t press a poor girl to speak plainer, but turn back, as you vally your life, Misther Launce!”

“Tut, tut, my girl!  I’m far too tired to walk round by Drum at this hour.”

“Walk till yer drop, Misther Blake, but don’t cross the bog this night.”

“Then you must tell why.”

But the girl only wrings her hands and moans.  She had not expected to meet with opposition of this kind.  She took it for granted that when he heard it would not be safe to cross the bog he would go back.  She did not know the temper of the Blakes of Donaghmore.

“There, get home, Patsy,” he says at last, out of patience; and he is feeling tired after his long day’s sport too.  “It’s time all honest girls were at their own firesides.”

“Sorra an inch will I stir till yez promise not to put yer foot on the bog this night!  Shure the boys are out, not by twos nor threes, but by scores; yez would be shot down before yez could get half-way over!”

“Ah!” he says, and draws a deep breath.  It is not a pleasant prospect, but the hot blood of a fighting race is running fiercely in his veins.

At this moment the sound of men marching in step comes through the stillness.  Yielding to an impulse for which he could find no reason, Launce draws back a step the girl has disappeared as if the earth had opened and swallowed her and in another second a small party of men, walking two abreast, is close beside him county police unmistakably; and a tall, upright man is a little in advance of the rest.  He is speaking in a low voice as they come up, but Launce hears every word.

“Good idea to think of following young Blake.  They are sure to assault him; they have been waiting for a chance like this for weeks past.  Then we must just close in and catch as many of the rascals as we can.  Look out for this Magill a tall fellow in a soft felt hat.  I would give fifty pounds to land that fellow safe and sound in Kilmainham.”

As Launce listens a furious anger stirs within him a rage so strong that it is as much as he can do to refrain from springing out upon the cowardly speaker.  He knows the man now he would recognize those smooth false tones among a thousand it is Mr. Hunter, Mrs. Dundas’s guest and friend, the man whom from the first he has disliked and distrusted.  A horrible suspicion, a chill doubt, makes him shake from head to foot.  Did Kate know of this?  Could it be that the woman he loved had seen him go out, a predestined victim, so that this spy might lodge one or two more rebels in Kilmainham jail?  A bitter word breaks from his lips as he thinks of it.  This poor girl for now that the police have passed Patsy has reappeared, like a phantom, out of the darkness in her ignorance and helplessness has been more true to him than the woman he has loved so passionately.

“You have saved my life, Patsy, and I’ll not forget it; but I’m not sure that it would not have been better for me to have gone on in my ignorance and taken my chance!” he says grimly.

“The saints be thanked!” the girl answers solemnly.  “I have done what I said I would do, and my heart is aisy this night!”