“Devil a fear of it, my darlin’ Ellen.  I could tell you something, if I thought myself at liberty to do so—­something mavourneen, that ’ud give you a light heart.”

“Indeed, Fergus, I don’t wish to hear any of your secrets.  It’s my opinion they would not be fit for me to hear.  But in the mane time,” she added—­prompted by the undying principle of female curiosity, and, let us add, a better and more generous feeling—­“in the mane time, Fergus, if it’s any thing about yourself, and that it would give me a light heart, as you say it would, and that there is nothing wrong and dishonorable in it, I would, for your sake, be glad to hear it.”

“Well then, Ellen, I will tell it; but it must, for reasons that there’s no use in mentionin’ to you, be a secret between us, for some time—­not a long time, I hope.  I am, thank God, free as the air of heaven, and may walk abroad, openly, in the face of day, if I like, without any one darin’ to ask me a question.”

“But, Fergus,” said Ellen, “I don’t undherstand this.  You were a robber—­a Rapparee—­and now you are a free man.  But what did you do to deserve this at the hands of the Government?”

“Don’t be alarmed, my darlin’ Ellen—­nothing imbecomin’ an honest man.”

“I hope,” she proceeded—­her cheeks mantling with indignation and scorn—­“I hope, Fergus, you wouldn’t think of stoopin’ to treachery against the unfortunate, ay, or even against the guilty.  I hope you wouldn’t sell yourself to the Government, and got your liberty, affcher all, only as a bribe for villany, instead of a free gift.”

“See, now,” he returned, “what I have brought on myself by tellin’ you any thing at all about it—­a regular ould house on my shouldhers.  No, darlin’,” he proceeded, “you ought to know me better.”

“Oh, Fergus,” she replied quickly, “I thought I knew you wanst.”

“Is that generous, Ellen?” he said, in a tone of deep and melancholy feeling, “afther statin’ my sorrow for that step?”

“Well,” she replied, moved by what she saw he suffered in consequence of her words, “if I have given you pain, Fergus, forgive me—­you know it’s not in my nature to give pain to any one, but, above all persons in the world, to you.”

“Well, darlin’,” said he, “you will know all in time; but there is a good deal to be done yet.  All I can say, and all I will say, is, that if God spares me life, I will take away one of the blackest enemies that Willy Reilly and the Cooleen Bawn has in existence.  He would do any thing that the villain of perdition he’s a slave to would bid him.  Now, I’ll say no more; and I’m sure, as the friend of your beautiful mistress, the fair Cooleen Bawn, you’ll thank me for what I have promised to do against the Red Bapparee.”

“I will pry no further into your affairs or intentions, Fergus; but, if you can take danger out of the way of the Cooleen Bawn or Reilly, I will forgive you a great deal—­every thing, indeed, but treachery or dishonor.  But, Fergus, I have something to mention, that will take a, start out of you.  I have been discharged by the squire from his family, and—­mavrone, oh!—­I can now be of no service to the Cooleen Bawn.”