I could only say he had been bred up in neglect of them, and to think them impracticable, priest-ridden traitors and murderers.  Yes, Lady Diana had said some of this to Harold already, It was true that they had shot Mr. Tracy, but Harold had learnt that after a wild, reckless, spendthrift youth, he had become a Protestant and a violent Orangeman in the hottest days of party strife, so that he had incurred a special hatred, which, as far as Harold could see, was not extended to the son, little as he did for his tenants but show them his careless, gracious countenance from time to time.

Yet peril for the sake of duty would, as all saw now, have been far better for Dermot than the alienation from all such calls in which his mother had brought him up.  When her religious influence failed with him, there was no other restraint.  Since he had left the army, he had been drawn, by those evil geniuses of his, deep into speculations in training horses for the turf, and his affairs had come into a frightful state of entanglement, his venture at Doncaster had been unsuccessful, and plunged him deeper into his difficulties, and then (as I came to know) Harold’s absolute startled amazement how any living man could screw and starve men, women, and children for the sake of horseflesh, and his utter contempt for such diversions as he had been shown at the races, compared with the pleasure of making human beings happy and improving one’s land, had opened Dermot’s eyes with very few words.

The thought was not new when the danger of death made him look back on those wasted years; and resolution began with the dawning of convalescence, that if he could only free himself from his entanglements—­and terrible complications they were—­he would begin a new life, worthy of having been given back to him.  In many a midnight watch he had spoken of these things, and Harold had soothed him by a promise to use that accountant’s head of his in seeing how to free him as soon as he was well enough.  Biston and the horses would be sold, and he could turn his mind to his Irish tenants, who, as he already saw, loved him far better than he deserved.  He caught eagerly at the idea of going out to Australia with Harold, and it did indeed seem that my brave-hearted nephew was effecting a far greater deliverance for him than that from the teeth and hoofs of wicked Sheelah.

“But you will not stay, Harold?  You will come home?” I said.

“I mean it,” he answered.

“Then I don’t so much mind,” said I, with infinite relief; and he added, thinking that I wanted further reassurance, that he should never give up trying to get Prometesky’s pardon; and that this was only a journey for supplies, and to see his old friend, and perhaps to try whether anything could be done about that other unhappy Harry.  I pressed him to promise me that he would return and settle here, but though he said he would come