ELLEN AND HER FATHER, WITH CAPTAIN O’BRIEN, WATCH THE CHAMPION AND COQUILLE FROM PORTALA HEAD — THE FIGHT — THE SHIPS DISAPPEAR IN THE DISTANCE — RETURN TO WATERFORD — NEWS OF THE CAPTURE OF O’HARRALL — ELLEN’S ANXIETIES — GERALD SENT TO MRS. MASSEY — DURING THE WIDOW’S ABSENCE OWEN RECEIVES A VISIT FROM O’HARRALL — CONCEALS HIM — THE PURSUERS COME TO THE COTTAGE — THE WIDOW’S ALARM — OWEN ENABLES O’HARRALL TO ESCAPE.

The worthy captain had not handled a pair of oars for many a year, but he seized the sculls and pulled away lustily towards the western side of the harbour.  As to rowing up it against the strong tide then running out, that, he saw, was hopeless, Mr Ferris being no oarsman.  The Coquille’s sails were let fall, and the men in the boats giving way, she in a short time was clear of the harbour, and was seen to stand close-hauled towards the south-west, the tide being in her favour.  The stranger had by this time made her out, and was steering on the opposite tack towards the harbour’s mouth.  Being far to leeward, there appeared but little chance, unless the breeze should freshen, of the two ships meeting.

“I only hope they may,” said the captain, as he tugged away at the oars.  “Thurot is a fine fellow, no doubt about that; but he deserves to be punished for his impudence, and if the Champion gets alongside him, he’ll find that he’s caught a Tartar.  Olding isn’t the man to part company with an enemy till she strikes, or one or the other goes to the bottom.  His officers are like him, I hear, and I shouldn’t be astonished to see the Coquille brought in a prize before many hours are over.”

Ellen looked pale and anxious while the captain was speaking.

“We knew Mr Foley, the second lieutenant of the Champion, very well in Dublin, when she lay at Kingstown,” observed Mr Ferris — “a fine young fellow.  I am sure also that you have described Captain Olding truly.”

The captain was all the time pulling away with might and main, now looking ahead to judge of the direction to take, and now watching the two ships.

“Thurot hasn’t calculated on getting becalmed under the land; if he does that, he’ll find the Champion soon walk up to him,” he observed.  “Pulling is harder work than I thought for, or my arms have grown stiffer than they used to be.  The sooner we can get on shore the better, and we can wait there till the tide turns, when perhaps we shall find some hooker running up to Waterford which will take us in tow.  I’ll pull in for Portala Bay, which you see just inside Red Head.”

“As you please,” said Mr Ferris.  “By climbing to the top of the Head we shall, I fancy, be able to watch the proceedings of the two ships.”

The captain pulling on, the boat soon reached a small bay just to the northward of a headland at the western side of the entrance of Waterford harbour.  Ellen was eager at once to climb to the summit of the height.  The captain and Mr Ferris having drawn up the boat, they set off, and were not long in gaining it.  From thence they could command a view of the whole coast of Waterford as far as Youghal Bay, towards which the Coquille was standing.  Her boats had been hoisted up, but she was still, even with a favourable tide, making but slow progress.  The ship to the eastward had now come completely into view.  The captain took a steady look at her.

“She is a sloop of war — I thought so from the first,” he exclaimed, “and from the cut of her canvas I have little doubt that she is English.”

As he spoke, the stranger’s ensign blew out from her peak.

“Yes, I knew I was right — she is the Champion, depend on it.  If the breeze favours her, far as she is to leeward, she’ll be up to Captain Thurot before noon,” he continued.  “If she once gets him within range of her guns, she’ll not let him go till he cries peccavi.”

Ellen was seated on a rock which formed the highest part of the headland.  Even under ordinary circumstances she would have watched the two vessels with much interest, but the intensity of her feelings may be supposed, as she thought of one who was on board the British ship; for although the gallant lieutenant had not yet spoken, she fully believed that he had given her his heart, and she could not avoid confessing to herself that she had bestowed hers in return.  In a few short hours he might be engaged in a deadly strife with a ship equal in size and the number of her crew to the Champion; and though she could not doubt that the British would come off victorious, yet she well knew the risk to which each of her gallant crew would be exposed.  The Champion had stood within a mile of the mouth of the harbour, when she tacked and steered for the French ship.  The breeze, as Captain O’Brien had foretold would be the case, gradually favouring her, enabled her to go much faster through the water than the other.  The captain several times pulled his watch, resembling a big turnip in size, out of his fob.

“The tide will soon be on the turn, and if we are to get home to-night we must take advantage of it,” he observed, “though I should mightily like to see the end of this.”

“Oh, do remain, I pray you,” said Ellen; “we can have no difficulty in getting back to Waterford, for the weather promises to be so fine.  Do you think it possible that Monsieur Thurot can escape?”

“The chances are against him, Miss Ellen, but it is hard to say what may happen,” answered Captain O’Brien.  “Captain Olding is not the man, as I have observed before, to let an enemy slip through his fingers; in less than half an hour he will get near enough to the Frenchman to send his shot on board, and he’ll stick tightly to him, no fear of that.”

Ellen held her breath, as she at length saw the ships approaching each other.  A puff of white smoke issued from the starboard bow of the Champion.  The Coquille returned it from her stern-chasers, but the shot fell harmlessly into the water.  Again and again the Champion fired; it was evident that she could only bring her foremost gun to bear, unless by keeping away and thereby losing ground.

“Thurot knows the coast as well as, or better than, Olding, and is unwilling to lose the advantage of being to windward,” exclaimed Captain O’Brien.  “See, he keeps his luff, and the Champion is compelled to do the same; I thought it would be so.  The Champion is losing the breeze, which has hitherto been in her favour, and if she doesn’t manage to wing the Frenchman, the fellow, who has evidently a fast pair of heels, will slip by between her and the land.  See, she’s not going to let him do that.  Hurrah! she’s kept away; there go her broadside guns.  They’ll have told, I hope, with effect on the Frenchman.  No, by George! every spar is standing,” exclaimed the captain, as the smoke from the Champion’s broadside cleared away.  She immediately again came to the wind.  The ships were still too far apart for the shot to do much damage; they both stood on for some time longer without firing, and were now so greatly increasing their distance from Red Head that the three spectators could but imperfectly discern what took place.  Again wreaths of smoke circled above the side of the Champion, and flashes were seen to issue from that of the Coquille, as, imitating the English ship, she put up her helm and kept away across the bows of the latter.

“Thurot has made up his mind to run for it,” cried the captain; “he’s squaring away his yards, and Olding’s after him.  The Frenchman has no stomach for a fight, that’s very certain; those privateersmen prefer plunder to glory.  If Olding doesn’t ply him briskly with his guns, the chase will get away after all.  I had hopes of seeing the Coquille brought in here as a prize; we could then have afforded to forgive her captain the trick he played us.”

In vain the captain and his companions waited for any event to show them which ship was likely to be the victor.  They were both at length hull down, their masts and spars standing apparently uninjured.  Poor Ellen had watched them with intense interest.  How long it might be before her anxiety could be removed, she could not tell; that the Champion would be taken, she did not believe possible.  But, alas! many of those on board might be killed or wounded; several days might pass before the Champion could come into Cork harbour.  With straining eyes she gazed towards the two ships gradually become less and less distinct.

“Come, Ferris — come, Miss Ellen, my dear — we must be on our homeward voyage, or our friends will become alarmed, and it will be reported that we have been carried off by the Frenchman,” said Captain O’Brien.

Very unwillingly Ellen left the height and accompanied her father and the captain to the boat.  He had still some distance to pull, though he kept a look-out for a larger boat or a sailing hooker on her way up to Waterford.  At length a little high-sterned craft was seen standing out of one of the many small bays which indent the western shore of the harbour.  The captain stood up, and shouted and waved, and the hooker, hauling her wind, hove to to await their coming.  The skipper, knowing he should be amply recompensed, was delighted to receive them on board and to take their boat in tow; and Ellen, seated on a sail, was wafted up the river in a very different style to that of Cleopatra in her barge, as far as the mouth of the Suir; when, the wind failing, Captain O’Brien, with the assistance of one of the crew of the hooker, pulled up the remainder of the distance to Waterford in the Coquille’s dinghy.

It was late in the evening.  As they approached the quay they were warmly cheered by a number of the townspeople who had heard of their adventure, information of the departure of the French privateer having already been brought up to Waterford.  It was soon evident to Mr Ferris that some other event of importance had occurred.

“What has happened, my friends?” he inquired.

“Shure, yer honour, one of the French officers has been caught hiding away in your garden,” answered Dan Connor, who was one of the nearest to him among the crowd.  “The thief of the world! he made a mighty fine fight of it; but we ran in on him, after he had cut down three or four of us, two being kilt entirely — but we knocked his sword out of his hand and seized him, and he’s lodged comfortably in the Ring Tower, out of which he isn’t likely to get in a hurry.”

“Of which French officer do you speak?” asked Mr Ferris; “we left our late prisoner on board the Coquille.”

“It wasn’t him, yer honour, but a big fellow with, a patch on his cheek and another over his eye,” answered Dan.  “He isn’t a Frenchman at all at all, but from the oaths he swore he’s Irish all the world over — the thunderin’ big villain — no other than Brian O’Harrall, who has a price on his head.  It cost us pretty dear to take him too.”

Further inquiries convinced Mr Ferris that the supposed French officer was the outlaw who had so long evaded the grasp of justice.  The prisoner, he understood, was under a strong guard.  Ellen being much fatigued, he accompanied her home before going to ascertain particulars.  Norah, who greeted her affectionately, looked pale and agitated.

“I have had a dreadful fright,” she said.  “My father had insisted on my taking a turn in the garden, and as I reached the rocky walk at the end of the terrace, out of sight of the house, who should appear before me but the first lieutenant of the privateer, who had dined with us yesterday.  I had then an undefined suspicion of him, and no sooner did he speak than I was convinced that he was the very person whom we met the other evening, and who attempted to carry me off, and who, notwithstanding his disguise, was, I am sure, the man who was picked up at sea by the Ouzel Galley, and acted as second mate on board her.  I knew that I had had the misfortune to excite his admiration, but I hoped when he was taken on board the privateer which captured us that I should never again see him.  He, however, it appears, was well known to Captain Thurot, who had appointed him his first lieutenant.  He made the most outrageous professions of affection; I, of course, would not listen to him; and dreading his violence, before he was aware of what I was about to do, I darted from him and ran, faster than I had ever run before in my life, towards the house.  He pursued, entreating me to stop and hear what he had to say.  Feeling that he was not to be trusted, I continued my flight, and providentially just then caught sight of Dan Connor and some of the crew of the Ouzel Galley, who had come up to see my father, and while waiting to do so had been allowed to stroll into the garden.  Several of the workmen and two of the gardeners, who happened to be close at hand, joined the seamen, and the whole party rushed at the stranger, who had by this time reached the bottom of the hill and found retreat impossible.  On this, I understand, he drew his sword and made a desperate defence, and though unhappily he wounded two of the men, the rest boldly threw themselves upon him, and wrenching his sword from his hand held him fast.  During his violent struggles to free himself the patch over his eye fell off, as did his heavy moustache, and some of the men, as they examined his features, recognised the pirate O’Harrall, the very man of whom Mrs Massey gave you the account.  I had rushed into my room, too much frightened and agitated to watch what was taking place.  He was carried off to prison, and will of course be brought to trial, in which case I fear that I shall have to appear as a witness against him.  I was afraid for some time to tell my father, for the same reason that I did not before inform him of the attack made on us.  However, he now knows all that has happened, and he tells me that he is well acquainted with O’Harrall’s history, and believes him capable of the most desperate acts of violence.”

Ellen had forgotten her own anxiety in listening to Norah’s recital.  She now described to her friend what had occurred, and the feeling which had agitated her while watching the two ships.  Norah offered such comfort as one young lady under the circumstances could give another.

“I have heard my father say that ships of war often meet and fire many shot without doing each other any harm,” she remarked; “and you know, my dear Ellen, that even though some of the crew of the Champion may be killed or wounded, there is no especial reason that Lieutenant Foley should be among the sufferers; and it is the lot of naval officers to be constantly exposed to the risk of battle in war time.”

“I know it too truly,” replied Ellen; “but it was dreadful to see the ship on board which I knew him to be sailing away to attack so renowned and skilful a captain as Monsieur Thurot — then, to have to wait so long for the issue of the battle.”

“Perhaps we shall have tidings of the arrival of the Champion to-morrow,” remarked Norah; “and, from what you tell me, Monsieur Thurot was more anxious to escape than, to fight.”

“So I at first thought,” said Ellen; “but I heard Captain O’Brien tell my father that he suspected Thurot’s object was to draw the English ship away from the Irish coast, that should he come off victorious he might have the better chance of securing his prize.  It was a relief to me to hear Captain O’Brien say he did not for a moment believe that the Champion would be beaten; on the contrary, that it would be much more likely that she would take the Coquille.  Still, there must inevitably have been a fierce battle; and oh, Norah, if you knew how I feel for Norman Foley, you would understand my anxiety.”

“I can fully understand it,” said Norah, “and I often think how sad it must be for poor women left at home, to know that those they love are exposed to dangers and hardships of all sorts which they are utterly powerless to relieve.  Such must be the lot of all sailors’ wives and those who have engaged their hearts to sailors — and yet it would be cruel to the poor men if on that account they could get no one to love them.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Ellen, sighing; “but then, remember, we can pray for them, and we can do our best to make them happy when they return home.”

Norah at length persuaded Ellen, who had had but little rest on the previous night, to lie down and try to forget her anxiety in sleep.  Soon afterwards Gerald came in.  He had been rather indignant at not having been taken when the party visited the supposed Jersey privateer.

“Had I seen Monsieur Thurot, I should have recognised him at once, for I marked him well when he came on board the Ouzel Galley; and I suspect, too, I should have detected his first lieutenant, in spite of his disguise,” he exclaimed.  “I wonder you did not find out that he was our mate Carnegan.”

“I did more than once fancy that I knew his voice, but it seemed so improbable that he should be on board a Jersey privateer that I banished the idea,” answered Norah.  “Now, Gerald, I want you to go and inquire after Mrs Massey and Owen; they may hear rumours of what has occurred, and will wish to know the truth.  You will have time to go there and be back again before dark.”

Gerald, who was always good-natured and anxious to please Norah, undertook to go and deliver any message, written or oral, she might wish to send.  She had already a note prepared for Owen, and with it Gerald set off.  He found Owen much better, and ready, if the doctor would let him, to walk into Waterford to see Norah; but Mrs Massey was sure that he overrated his strength, and told Gerald that Norah must not expect him for some days.  She was much interested at hearing the account which Gerald gave of the various occurrences of the last two days.

“And can that unhappy man have really been captured?  What a sad ending to a once respected family!” she exclaimed.  “He cannot expect pardon.  I bear him no ill-will, though his family has been the ruin of ours; and even now, in the hope that he may have time for repentance, I would thankfully hear that he had escaped rather than suffer the death his crimes deserve.”

“I should certainly not have suspected that the Carnegan we had as second mate on board the Ouzel Galley could have been a murderer and pirate,” said Gerald.  “The men, however, were inclined to believe from the way he was saved that he was in league with the Evil One, and they will now be convinced that such was the case.”

“Satan would rather have let him drown,” said Mrs Massey, “unless indeed he wished to employ him in some still more wicked deed.  He undoubtedly mates use of those who willingly yield to him as his tools to work out his designs.”

While Mrs Massey had been talking to Gerald, Owen had been inditing an answer to Norah’s note, with which, rather later than he had intended, Gerald set off to return home.  It was quite dark before he reached the town.  He was proceeding along a narrow lane which offered a shorter cut than the high road, when he heard the footsteps of a person running at full speed, and directly afterwards a man rushed by him whose countenance he could not see; but it struck him at the time that the figure greatly resembled that of Carnegan, the second mate of the Ouzel Galley.  He was doubtful for a moment whether he should follow:  though brave enough under ordinary circumstances, he felt pretty certain that if such was the case O’Harrall would not scruple to knock him on the head or to blow his brains out; and so he did the next best thing which occurred to him — he ran on, intending to make his way to the Ring Tower to give information that the prisoner had escaped; though he fully expected to meet a party in hot pursuit of the fugitive.

Mrs Massey was at supper with her son, when there came a knock at the door, and a bare-headed damsel appeared.

“Mrs Massey, my mother’s taken mighty bad entirely, and will it plaze ye to come and see what ye can do for her?” she exclaimed, in a petitioning tone.  Mrs Massey, who was proud of the medical knowledge she exercised for the benefit of her neighbours, immediately arose.

“Indeed, and I’ll come, Molly,” she answered.  “Just wait till I put on my hood and fill my basket with such things as I may require.”

She speedily getting ready, told Owen that she would soon be back, and that Mrs Hogan would know that she could not leave him all alone for any length of time; and off she set, with Molly Hogan carrying a lantern before her.

Owen trimmed the lamp which burnt on the table, and sat down to read till his mother’s return.  He had not long been thus occupied, when hearing the door open he looked up, expecting that Mrs Massey had returned for something she had omitted to take with her.  Instead of his mother, he saw standing before him the second mate of the Ouzel Galley.  For a moment he thought that he must be dreaming.

“You know me, Owen Massey,” exclaimed his visitor, “You saved my life once, when the devil well-nigh had me in his clutches, and I come to throw myself on your generosity — to ask you to render me a further service.  Should I be recaptured, I should be doomed to the gallows, and I have no fancy for that fate.  Conceal me for a few hours, and I shall be able to get off in safety; refuse to do so, and I shall fall into the hands of my pursuers.”

Owen hesitated, not because he was aware that the man before him was O’Harrall, the enemy of his family, but because he was unwilling to expose his mother to the penalty of harbouring a fugitive from justice.  He rose from his seat and said, “I now know you to be Brian O’Harrall.”  His visitor started, and drew back a pace, as if about to leave the cottage, believing that all hope of assistance must be abandoned.  “Stay,” continued Owen, his generous feelings getting the better of him, “I do not on that account the less desire to save you if I can.  Should you not have been traced here, I may yet be able to do so.”

“I am not likely to have been traced, for my flight can scarcely yet have been discovered,” answered O’Harrall.  “You will run no risk, and I will be grateful if I can find an opportunity.  I have proved that I am not destitute of gratitude.  When on board the Ouzel Galley, I obtained better terms for you from Thurot than you would otherwise have enjoyed.”

“Follow me, then,” said Owen, “and I will conceal you till you have an opportunity of escaping; but promise me that you will not again return to this part of the country.”

“I have no hesitation in doing that, for I intend to do my best to escape from Ireland, never with my own free will to come back,” answered O’Harrall.

“That is sufficient,” said Owen; and he led the way through the cottage to an outbuilding at some short distance, over which there was a loft, long disused.  Owen found a ladder, by which the fugitive mounted to it.

“You can easily leap to the ground when you think fit to continue your flight,” said Owen, who had followed him up.  “I will bring you some food, to afford you support both for the present and on your journey; and if you want money, I will supply you.”

“I give you my thanks, but I have a purse full of gold.  Be quick, however, with the food, or my pursuers may be here and prevent you from bringing it to me,” replied O’Harrall.

Owen on descending removed the ladder, and, hurrying into the pantry, collected such provisions as he could most easily find, and for the disappearance of which he could account the next day to his mother.  He carried them to the fugitive, and then again replaced the ladder in the spot from which he had taken it.  Having done this, he returned to the sitting-room and threw himself into a chair, resting his head on his hand.  He had performed a generous action, but still he questioned himself whether it was a right one.  He was attempting to conceal from justice an undoubted malefactor; it was an act then, as now, too common in Ireland, and was sure to meet with the sympathy of the people should it be discovered.  Owen possibly might have partaken somewhat in the feeling general among all classes, that it was a right thing to protect those in distress, whatever their crimes against society.  A more generous motive had influenced him, and he might have been less inclined to act as he had done should a person indifferent to him, and equally criminal in the sight of the law, have thrown himself upon his mercy.  Owen did not know the full wrong O’Harrall had attempted to inflict upon him; even had he been aware of this, it might not have altered his conduct.

Some time passed before his mother returned; during it, he did his best to calm his feelings, for he had determined not to tell her what had occurred, hoping that before the next morning O’Harrall would have disappeared.  Shortly after she entered the cottage the old lady urged Owen to go to bed.

“You look somewhat pale, my son,” she said, holding the light to his face, “and late hours do not suit an invalid.”

“When you set me the example, I will go and turn in,” answered Owen, laughing.  As he was speaking, loud shouts were heard, and several people came running up and knocking loudly at the door.

“Who is it?” asked Mrs Massey.

“Shure, it’s Pat Magragh.  Are ye safe inside, Mrs Massey, honey?” inquired one of the men from the outside.

“And where else should I be?” answered the widow, recognising the voice and going to the door.  Owen felt very uncomfortable, for he fully expected that inquiries would be made for the fugitive.

“Shure, it’s no matther at all, thin,” exclaimed the man.  “As we got to Molly Hogan’s, she told us that ye’d just left the cottage, and it might be the big villain we were hunting might have fallen in wid ye and done ye harm; but if ye didn’t see him, it’s all right, and we must be joining the rest of the bhoys who ran after him.”

“Whom do you mean?” asked Mrs Massey.

“Brian O’Harrall, to be shure,” was the answer; “he’s broken out of the Ring Tower, nobody knows how — except he got the help of the devil and his imps.”

“Thank Heaven I did not meet him! it would have well-nigh driven me out of my wits,” said the widow, trembling at the thoughts of the supposed danger she had escaped.

“Good night, Mrs Massey; keep your door closed, lest he should turn like a fox and bolt in,” cried Pat Magragh, as he and his companions hurried away in pursuit, as they believed, of the escaped criminal.  Mrs Massey did as she was advised, and sat down, endeavouring to calm her agitation, and feeling but little inclined to go to bed.

“It is useless to sit up, mother,” observed Owen, after Mrs Massey had been talking for some time about the escape of O’Harrall.  “The man, if he has got away, is certain not to return.  At all events, you will be as safe in bed as anywhere else.”

After some persuasion Mrs Massey consented to retire to bed, and after listening for some time at last fell asleep.  The window of Owen’s room looked directly down upon the outbuilding in which the fugitive was concealed.  Owen felt much relieved, from believing that those who had gone on were not likely to think of examining the place; still, he could not go to sleep, and putting out his candle he sat down at the window to watch, hoping that O’Harrall would take the opportunity of slipping out and getting off to a distance, no watched in vain.  After some hours he heard the tramp of feet along the road and the voices of men shouting to each other.  They were the people who had gone in chase of O’Harrall.  Could the outlaw have continued his flight and, after all, have been captured?  Owen listened attentively, and felt convinced that they were returning to the city without having overtaken the fugitive, he could no longer restrain his wish to ascertain whether O’Harrall was still in the loft, and cautiously descending the stair, he lighted a lantern and went out.  To place the ladder so as to reach the trap was the work of a moment.  He ascended to the loft, and throwing the light towards the further end, he saw the man he came to look for sleeping soundly.

Before Owen had advanced a step O’Harrall awoke and, springing to his feet, saw who it was.

“I came to tell you,” said Owen, “that the men who had gone in pursuit of you have, to the best of my belief, returned to the city, and now would be a favourable time to make your escape.”

O’Harrall hesitated.  “What o’clock is it?” he asked.

“Just past midnight,” refilled Owen.

“Are you certain that the men who are hunting for me have returned to the city?” asked O’Harrall.

“Judging from what I heard, and the direction in which their voices died away, I am confident of it,” said Owen.

“Then I will follow your advice,” answered O’Harrall.  “You have increased the debt of gratitude I owe you.  I have no means of showing that I am grateful; but do me one favour more — accept this ring; it belonged to your family.  It has a curious device on it, which is its chief value.  I wish you to believe that, reckless as I am, I still retain some of the feelings I possessed when you knew me in days gone by.  Come, take it; I cannot leave this place till you have done so.  There, man, take the ring; it might have been yours by right.”

Owen took the ring and placed it on his finger.

“If we ever again meet, however much changed you may be, I shall know you by that,” said O’Harrall.  “Now, farewell — may a happier fate be yours than will probably be my lot!”

“Stay a moment, and I will ascertain that no one is near,” said Owen, as O’Harrall was about to descend the ladder.  He hid the lantern, and went out into the open part of the garden and round to the front of the house.  Clouds obscured the stars; not a sound was to be heard, except the voice of some bird of night, which came from a distance.  By some it might have been thought of ill omen, but Owen was above the superstitions of the ignorant.  He returned to the outhouse, and in a low voice called to O’Harrall, who immediately descended the ladder.

“I feel sure that no one is on the watch,” said Owen, “and it may be most prudent for you to get away at once.”

“You are right,” answered O’Harrall.  “Again farewell, Massey; though we may never more see each other, I shall always remember that I have met with one honest and generous man.”

He did not, however, put out his hand, perhaps supposing that Massey would consider himself contaminated by touching it.

“Go into your house,” he continued, “and let me follow my own course, that you may not even know what direction I have taken.”

Owen did as he was advised, leaving O’Harrall standing beneath the shelter of the buildings.  Closing the door he returned to his room, when on looking out of his window, he found that O’Harrall had disappeared.  His mind felt greatly relieved at the thought that he was no longer harbouring a fugitive from justice.  On going into the garden the next morning, he could perceive no traces by which it might perchance be discovered that O’Harrall had been there, and he determined that the occurrence should be known only to his mother and himself.  He considered that it would be wrong to conceal it from her, and, sitting down, he told her what he had done.  She did not speak for a minute or more.

“You acted rightly, my son,” she said at length.  “The O’Harralls have been our bitter enemies, but our holy religion teaches us that we should not only forgive our foes, but do good to those who most cruelly ill-treat and abuse us; whatever man may say, God will approve of your act, for he knows the motive which prompted you.”