As Larry gazed, the figure somehow dissolved and broke up without receding.  A hanging tuft of yellow and red ivy nodded queerly in place of the face, some broken and discoloured masonry in perspective took up the outline and colouring of the arms and figure, and two imperfect red and yellow lichen streaks carried on the curved tracing of the long spindle shanks.  Larry blessed himself, and drew his hand across his damp forehead, over his bewildered eyes, and could not speak for a minute.  It was all some devilish trick; he could take his oath he saw every feature in the fellow’s face, the lace and buttons of his cloak and doublet, and even his long finger nails and thin yellow fingers that overhung the cross-shaft of the window, where there was now nothing but a rusty stain left.

The young gentleman who had arrived with De Lacy, stayed that night and shared with great apparent relish the homely fare of the family.  He was a gay and gallant Frenchman, and the beauty of the younger lady, and her pleasantry and spirit, seemed to make his hours pass but too swiftly, and the moment of parting sad.

When he had departed early in the morning, Ultor De Lacy had a long talk with his elder daughter, while the younger was busy with her early dairy task, for among their retainers this proles generosa reckoned a “kind” little Kerry cow.

He told her that he had visited France since he had been last at Cappercullen, and how good and gracious their sovereign had been, and how he had arranged a noble alliance for her sister Una.  The young gentleman was of high blood, and though not rich, had, nevertheless, his acres and his nom de terre, besides a captain’s rank in the army.  He was, in short, the very gentleman with whom they had parted only that morning.  On what special business he was now in Ireland there was no necessity that he should speak; but being here he had brought him hither to present him to his daughter, and found that the impression she had made was quite what was desirable.

“You, you know, dear Alice, are promised to a conventual life.  Had it been otherwise—­”

He hesitated for a moment.

“You are right, dear father,” she said, kissing his hand, “I am so promised, and no earthly tie or allurement has power to draw me from that holy engagement.”

“Well,” he said, returning her caress, “I do not mean to urge you upon that point.  It must not, however, be until Una’s marriage has taken place.  That cannot be, for many good reasons, sooner than this time twelve months; we shall then exchange this strange and barbarous abode for Paris, where are many eligible convents, in which are entertained as sisters some of the noblest ladies of France; and there, too, in Una’s marriage will be continued, though not the name, at all events the blood, the lineage, and the title which, so sure as justice ultimately governs the course of human events, will be again established, powerful and honoured in this country, the scene of their ancient glory and transitory misfortunes.  Meanwhile, we must not mention this engagement to Una.  Here she runs no risk of being sought or won; but the mere knowledge that her hand was absolutely pledged, might excite a capricious opposition and repining such as neither I nor you would like to see; therefore be secret.”