o be, sir,
your obedient servant, Pamela Fitzgerald."

"That is from Lady Edward," said his honour. "Now read this."

The paper he handed me now was a dirty and illiterate scrawl, without
date or signature.

"Maris Gorman,--Take note your doghter is in safe hands, and will not be
returnd till you take the oth of the Unyted Irishmen and pay 5 hundred
pounds sterling to the fund. Allso note that unless you come in
quickly, you will be shott like a dog, and the devil help you for a
trayter to Ireland."

"Now," said he, with a gloomy smile, "you know as much of my daughter's
whereabouts as I do."

"This is terrible news," said I. "How is it you are not in Dublin at
this moment, moving heaven and earth to find her?"

He laughed bitterly.

"It's easy talking," said he. "In the first place, I should be shot
before I reached my own gate; I have been practically a prisoner here
for weeks. In the next place, what could I do? Even if I took the
oath, where is the money to come from?"

"Five hundred pounds is a small sum to a rich man like you."

"Whoever calls me rich, lies," said he testily, and with an uneasy
gesture which explained to my mind the dilapidated state of the place.
Maurice Gorman was not only a poltroon but a miser, and five hundred
pounds were worth more to him than his own daughter.

"Is nothing being done?" said I. "Have you shown the letter to the
authorities, or to Lord Edward?"

"What use?" said he. "I am on too ill terms with either to expect their
help."

"And so you intend to leave that poor girl to her fate?" I cried. "But
if you will not move, I will!"

"What can I do?" said he wearily. "You know how I am fixed. Perhaps
when I am shot they will let her go. Maybe that will be the simplest
way out of it, after all."

I could not help pitying him, much as I despised him, so miserably did
he speak.

Then he began to talk about the state of the country, and of the bad
odour he had fallen into with his brother magistrates.

"They suspect me of being in with the rebels, Gallagher, as if I had
cause to love them. On my soul, if I'm to be suspected, it sometimes
seems I might as well be so with reason as without. Suppose, for the
sake of argument, Gallagher, I took their precious oath--suppose it, I
say, how should I stand then? By all appearances, Ireland is going to
be delivered; and it will be a bad day when she comes into her own for
those who withstood her. Should I be