there he fainted.
VI
“Meanwhile war arose.”
Milton
But as the page sank upon the floor, a small bottle fell from his breast coat-pocket, and the widow saw that it was labelled “antidote for the oil of strychnine.” Then the widow’s heart leaped for joy, and as she poured the precious drops into the gaping wound, she said a prayer that the page might recover also.
But what noise is this of horses and of men around the humble vinevard of that poor widow? “Tiraloo, Tiraloo, Tiraloo-ooh,” “Ha!” said the Mountfidget, raising himself on his elbow, “ ’tis the war-cry of the Grandnostrel!” “Rowdadow, Rowdadow, Rowdadow-dow,” then greeted his ears. “Ha! ha!” he cried. “Rowdadow, a Rowdadow, Rowdadow-dow; ’tis the war-cry of the Mountfidget!” And he grasped the sword which lay beneath his pillow. “Mountfidget to the rescue! Shall a man lie still and perish beneath the bedclothes? Ho, a Hossbach! Ho, a Walker!” For Walker was the captain of the men-at-arms at Mountfidget, and the lord knew the voice of his trusty clansman.
Then the widow looked through the lattice-window, and told him how the fight went. But no one thought of the page upon whose brow the clammy hand of death was falling as he lay at the bed-foot.
Alascco the Wise had been left in the forest, and was unable to stir another step. “ ’Tis the blood of the Mountfidget,” he had said, when he saw the gouts upon the path. “I know it by its purple hue, and by its violet-scented perfume. Follow it on, but take that bottle with thee. And stay, lest thy sex betray thee to ill-usage from the boors, take this page’s raiment which I carry in my wallet, and put the bottle in thy breast coat-pocket. If thou find, as is too likely, a gaping wound in the nape of the neck, naught can restore him but this. Pour it in freely, and he shall live. But if he shall first have heard the war-cry of thy father to disturb him, then he shall surely die.” So the gentle Euphemia had gone through the forest, and had reached the chamber of the widow in which lay the lord of Mountfidget.
And as she lay at the foot of the bed, slowly there came back upon her mind a knowledge that she was there. She put her hand to her bosom in haste, and found that the bottle was gone. Then a terrible sound greeted her ears, and she heard the war-cry of her father. Tiraloo, Tiraloo, Tiraloo-ooh! “He is dead,” she cried, springing to her feet. “He is dead, and I will die also.”
Then the widow knew that it was the gentle Euphemia. “No, thou gentlest one,” she said; “he shall not die. He shall live to count the fat beeves and the many swine of Mountfidget, and shall be the possessor of much money in many banks; and thou, thou gentlest one, shall share his blessings. For love shall still be lord of all.”
“I do confess,” said the gentle Euphemia in a silvern whisper—in a silvern whisper that was heard by him beneath the bedclothes—“I do confess that love is lord of me.” Then she sank upon the floor.
And then they all returned to the Castle of Grandnostrel, and on their way they took up the wise Alasco, who had remained in the forest.
“Nay, father,” said the damsel smiling, “but thou hast been right in all things, and hast taught me better than Plato ever taught.”
“And was not I young once myself!” said the sage. So when the blood-red wine had warmed his old veins, and made supple the joints of his aged legs, he tripped a measure in the castle hall, and was very jocund.
So the lord of Mountfidget was married to the gentle Euphemia. But when three months were passed and gone, Lieutenant Hossbach had returned to his regimental duties.
And love shall still be lord of all.
Father Giles of Ballymoy
It is nearly thirty years since I, Archibald Green, first entered the little town of Ballymoy, in the west of Ireland, and became acquainted with one of the honestest fellows and best Christians whom it has ever been my good fortune to know. For twenty years he and I were fast friends, though he was much my elder. As he has now been ten years beneath the sod, I may tell the story of our first meeting.
Ballymoy is a so-called town—or was in the days of which I am speaking—lying close to the shores of Lough Corrib, in the county of Galway. It is on the road to no place, and, as the end of a road, has in itself nothing to attract a traveller. The scenery of Lough Corrib is grand; but the lake is very large, and the fine scenery is on the side opposite to Ballymoy, and hardly to be reached, or even seen, from that place. There is fishing—but it is lake fishing. The salmon fishing of Lough Corrib is far away from Ballymoy, where the little river runs away from the lake down to the town of Galway. There was then in Ballymoy one single street, of which the characteristic at first sight most striking to a stranger was its general appearance of being thoroughly wet through. It was not simply that the rain water was generally running down its unguttered streets in muddy, random rivulets, hurrying towards the lake with true Irish impetuosity, but that each separate house looked as though the walls were reeking with wet; and the alternated roofs of thatch and slate—the slated houses being just double the height of those that were thatched—assisted the eye and mind of the spectator in forming this
