“Yes,” said he, “but the girl that was dearer to me a thousand times than my own life has proved faithless, because there is a stain upon my name—­a stain, but no crime, Caterine; a stain made by the law, but no crime.  Had her heart been loyal and true, she would have loved me ten times more in consequence of my very disgrace—­if disgrace I ought to call it; but instead of that—­but wait—­O, the villain!  Well, I shall meet him, I trust, before long, and then, Caterine, ah, then!”

“Well, Shawn, if she has desalted you, I know one that loves you better than ever she did, and that would never desart you, as Grace Davoren has done.”

“Ah, Caterine,” replied the outlaw, sorrowfully, “I am past that now; my heart is broke—­I could never love another.  What proof of truth or affection could any other woman give me after the treachery of her who once said she loved me so well?  She said, indeed, some time ago, that it was her father forced her to do it, but that was after she had seen him, for well I know she often told me a different story before the night of the bonfire and the shower of blood.  Well, Caterine, that shower of blood was not sent for nothing.  It came as the prophecy of his fate, which, if I have life, will be a bloody one.”

“Shawn,” replied Caterine, as if she had not paid much attention to his words, “Shawn, dear Shawn, there is one woman who would give her life for your love.”

“Ah,” said Shawn, “it’s aisily said, at all events—­aisily said; but who is it Caterine?”

“She is now speaking to you,” she returned.  “Shawn, you cannot but know that I have long loved you; and I now tell you that I love you still—­ay, and a thousand times more than ever Grace Davoren did.”

“You!” said Shawn, recoiling with indignation; “is it you, a spy, a fortune-teller, a go-between, and, if all be true, a witch; you, whose life and character would make a modest woman blush to hear them mentioned?  Why, the curse of heaven upon you! how dare you think of proposing such a subject to me?  Do you think because I’m marked by the laws that my heart has lost anything of its honesty and manhood?  Begone, you hardened and unholy vagabond, and leave my sight.”

“Is that your language, Shawn?”

“It is; and what other language could any man with but a single spark of honesty and respect for himself use toward you?  Begone, I say.”

“Yes, I will begone; but perhaps you may live to rue your words:  that is all.”

“And, perhaps, so may you,” he replied.  “Leave my sight.  You are a disgrace to the name of woman.”

She turned upon her heel, and on the instant bent her steps towards Rathfillan House.

“Shawn-na-Middogue,” she said as she went along, “you talk about revenge, but wait till you know what the revenge of an insulted woman is.  It is not an aisy thing to know your haunts; but I’ll set them upon your trail that will find you out if you were to hide yourself in the bowels of the earth, for the words you used to me this night. Dar manim, I will never rest either night or day until I see you swing from a gibbet.”