ll," said he; "I am to be arrested to-morrow night."

"To-night, dearest Reilly, to-night. Papa told me this evening, in one
of his moods of anger, that before to-morrow morning you would be in
Sligo jail."

"Well, dearest Helen," he replied, "that is certainly making quick work
of it. But, even so, I am prepared this moment to escape. I have settled
my affairs, left the management of them to my uncle, and this interview
with you, my beloved girl, must be our last."

As he uttered these melancholy words the tears came to his eyes.

"The last!" she exclaimed. "Oh, no; it must not be the last. You shall
not go alone, dearest William. My mind is made up. Be it for life or for
death, I shall accompany you."

"Dearest life," he replied, "think of the consequences."

"I think of nothing," said Cooleen Bawn, "but my love for you. If you
were not surrounded by danger as you are, if the whoop of vengeance were
not on your trail, if death and a gibbet were not in the background,
I could part with you; but now that danger, vengeance, and death, are
hovering about you, I shall and must partake of them with you. And
listen, Reilly; after all it is the best plan. Papa, if I accompany
you--supposing that we are taken--will relent for my sake. I know his
love for me. His affection for me will overcome all his prejudices
against you. Then let us fly. To-night you will be taken. Your rival
will triumph over both of us; and I--I, oh! I shall not survive it. Save
me, then, Reilly, and let me fly with you."

"God knows," replied Reilly, with deep emotion, "if I suffered myself to
be guided by the impulse of my heart, I would yield to wishes at once
so noble and disinterested. I cannot, however, suffer my affection,
absorbing and inexpressible as it is, to precipitate your ruin. I speak
not of myself, nor of what I may suffer. When we reflect, however,
my beloved girl, upon the state of the country, and of the law, as it
operates against the liberty and property of Catholics, we must both
admit the present impossibility of an elopement without involving you
in disgrace. You know that until some relaxation of the laws affecting
marriage between Catholics and Protestants takes place, an union between
us is impossible; and this fact it is which would attach disgrace to
you, and a want of honor, principle, and gratitude to me. We should
necessarily lead the lives of the guilty, and seek the wildest
fastnesses of the mountain solitudes and