ead. The man was close behind him. The man was beside him.

"Mickey O'Flynn it is," said Lord Harry.

"'Tis a ---- traitor, you are," said the man.

"Your friends the Invincibles told you that, Mickey. Why, do you think
I don't know, man, what are you here for? Well?" he stopped. "I am
unarmed. You have got a revolver in your hand--the hand behind your
back. What are you stopping for?"

"I cannot," said the man.

"You must, Mickey O'Flynn--you must; or it's murdered you'll be
yourself," said Lord Harry, coolly. "Why, man, 'tis but to lift your
hand. And then you'll be a murderer for life. I am another--we shall
both be murderers then. Why don't you fire, man."

"By ---- I cannot!" said Mickey. He held the revolver behind him, but
he did not lift his arm. His eyes started: his mouth was open; the
horror of the murderer was upon him before the murder was committed.
Then he started. "Look!" he cried. "Look behind you, my lord!"

Lord Harry turned. The second man was upon him. He bent forward and
peered in his face.

"Arthur Mountjoy's murderer!" he cried, and sprang at his throat.

One, two, three shots rang out in the evening air. Those who heard them
in the roadside cabin, at the railway-station on the road, shuddered.
They knew the meaning of those shots. One more murder to load the soul
of Ireland.

But Lord Harry lay dead in the middle of the road.

The second man got up and felt at his throat.

"Faith!" he said, "I thought I was murdered outright. Come, Mick, let
us drag him to the roadside."

They did so, and then with bent heads and slouched hats, they made
their way across country to another station where they would not be
recognised as the two who had followed Lord Harry down the road.

Two mounted men of the Constabulary rode along an hour later and found
the body lying where it had been left.

They searched the pockets. They found a purse with a few sovereigns;
the portrait of a lady---the murdered man's wife--a sealed envelope
addressed to Hugh Mountjoy, Esq, care of his London hotel; and a
card-case: nothing of any importance.

"It is Lord Harry Norland," said one. "The wild lord--he has met his
end at last."

The letter to Iris was brief. It said:

"Farewell! I am going to meet the death of one who is called a Traitor
to the Cause. I am the Traitor of a Cause far higher. May the end that
is already plotted for me be accepted as an atonement! Forgive me,
Iris! Think of me as kindly as y