After leaving Quinlan’s, as detailed in a former chapter, O’Mahony and myself agreed to separate for a few days.  No reward had then been offered for him, and my presence only impeded his movements.  We crossed the river Suir, and remained most of the day in Coolnamuck wood.  Toward evening I was conducted far into the county Waterford, where I was to remain until I heard what progress he was able to make.  My host was the chief of one of the fierce factions of county Waterford, and bore many a mark of desperate fray.  I do not remember having met any man, before or since, who felt so acutely the fate of the country.  He procured the best fare he could, and prepared my bed with his own hands.  After I retired to rest, he continued pacing the room for several hours, sometimes sighing deeply, sometimes muttering curses between his clenched teeth, and sometimes suggesting plans which he thought might be even then available and efficient to redeem the past.  These plans were all of a character more or less desperate; but some were exceedingly ingenious.  A truer type of a Celt could not easily be found; his very caution was stamped with vehemence.

Next day but one I proceeded to meet O’Mahony, to learn his success in his nocturnal interviews.  I was unable to meet him; but encountered a faithful follower of Thomas Francis Meagher, who was the bearer of a message to the effect that if he could be prevailed upon to attempt escaping, means could be procured for him.  I expressed at once my entire concurrence, and desired the messenger should return to say that on condition the same means would be made available for those who were not yet arrested, we would all gladly accept of them.  I ventured into a house, where, in early life, I spent many a happy day.  Those of the family whom I had known and loved, had passed out of the world.  They were a brother and sister, the former educated for the Church, and the latter highly gifted and educated far above her condition.  I never knew a woman, in any rank of life, of nobler character or a more heroic nature.  She had the richest store of womanly tenderness and kindly affections.  She took the veil at the Dungarvan Convent in very early youth, where she died two years afterwards.  I asked for some food, and while it was being prepared I wrote the following lines on a blank leaf of a book belonging to my dead friend:—­

    Bliss to thy spirit, gentlest maid,
    Fond, faithful and beloved; how oft,
    Within the circle of this glowing glade,
    Our mingling souls had soared aloft;
    And wooed the knowledge of our destiny—­
    What is it?  I a fugitive, and thou on high.

    Yet hopeless of the land I’d save,
    Nay, spurned by those for whom I’d die,
    Unknown where your fond welcome gave,
    There’s still a throb of ecstasy. 
    Even though the latest I may feel on earth. 
    In lingering o’er the scene where thou hadst birth.