ccasionally at my club--had delivered himself of a plan
of campaign, an actual fighting programme, which he recommended to the
Ulstermen, supposing that they meant to declare war against any one
who wanted them to govern themselves. This letter interested me very
much. Malcolmson offered his lawn as a parade and drill ground for
volunteers. He also said that he thoroughly understood modern guns,
and was prepared to take command of any artillery which Ulster might
happen to possess. I lay back in my chair and tried to form a mental
picture of Malcolmson, who is stout and has a bristly white moustache,
aiming an immense cannon at an income tax collector. The vision was a
pleasant one to linger over, and I added to the scene before my mind
the figure of an athletic policeman threatening to smash Malcolmson's
cannon with a baton. The Nationalist leaders then appeared in the
background waving Union Jack flags, and urging the policeman to fresh
exertions in the cause of law and order. I even seemed to hear them
denouncing Malcolmson as one of those who march through rapine and
bloodshed to the dismemberment of an Empire.

I was aroused from my agreeable reverie by Marion. She was standing at
the window looking out across the bay on the far shore of which stands
the little town of Kilmore, from which my ancestor, who was a Union
peer, took his title.

"I wonder what they're doing in the village to-night," she said.
"There are a lot of lights moving about in the harbour and on the
quay."

I shook myself free of the vision of Malcolmson's artillery duel with
the tax collector, and joined Marion at the window. A half moon lit
the scene before me dimly, making patches of silver light here and
there on the calm waters of the bay. The _Finola_, looking very large,
lay at anchor, broadside on to us, opposite the pier. On her deck
lights moved to and fro, yellow stars in the grey gloom. On the pier
were more lights, lanterns evidently, some stationary, others
flickering in rapid motion. The night was so still that I could hear
distinctly the rattle of oars in rowlocks. Boats were plying between
the _Finola_ and the shore.

"Can they be landing anything from the yacht?" said Marion.

"I don't think so," I said. "Yachts do not carry cargoes, and if they
did they wouldn't land them in the middle of the night."

I looked at my watch. It was almost twelve o'clock. Then another noise
was added to the rattling of oars. A cart, unmista