“Och! and what are ye about to be afther disthurbing a poor young cratur like that,” cried the well-known voice of Father Murphy, as the friar’s portly figure was seen bustling through the mob. “What are ye afther there? Don’t you see the poor thing has lost her way in the darkthness; and if ye bother her so, how d’ye think she’ll evher be able to find it?”
Never did any music sound so harmoniously in Clara’s ears, as the father’s rich deep brogue; and darting forwards she threw herself at his feet, and clasping her arms round his knees, she exclaimed—“Oh! save me! save me! I am Clara! Clara Montagu!”
“Clara!” cried Father Murphy, in the utmost astonishment. “Clara! why, what in the name of Heaven brings you out, child, at this hour of the night?”
“Oh! don’t ask me, father,” returned Clara, gasping for breath; “that is, I will tell you presently. But take me away; for the love of the blessed Virgin, save me from these men!”
“Come here, my child,” said the Father, drawing her arm within his own, and walking away with her; “let us lave these people. And now,” continued he, when they were already at some distance from the crowd, “you must tell me, child, what brings ye here?”
This question, though it was a very natural one for the friar to ask, was beyond Clara’s power to answer. In fact, she trembled so dreadfully she could scarcely stand; and when she attempted to speak, her teeth chattered in her head so violently, that she could not articulate a syllable. “Poor thing!” muttered the compassionate priest, after waiting a few minutes in vain for an answer, “she’ll be betther presently.”
All now was dark, and they walked slowly on some paces without speaking, when four bright flashes from a neighbouring clock announced the completion of some hour—the next instant, the solemn deep-toned bell distinctly pronounced the word “one,” and then all again was silent.
“I had no fancy it was so late,” said the father, whose disposition was naturally too cheerful to let him ever remain long silent.
“Did you think it was one o’clock, Clara?—I little thought I should ever be wandering with you, dear, in the shtreets at such a time of night. I can’t help fancying it’s all a drame, anyhow: so spake, darling, if you can, and tell me all about it.”
Clara felt faint, and only replied by clinging yet more firmly to the friar’s arm. Father Murphy was frightened and thought she was going to die.—“Oh murther!” cried he, “what will I do? she brathing her last, sweet cratur, and nobody by to help her, and I not knowing how to comfort her.”
The delicate form of Clara seemed every instant to become more heavy, as she still clung almost unconsciously to the friar’s arm, and feebly gasped for breath.
“Oh! what will I do? what will I do?” repeated the poor father, looking eagerly around for aid: all however was dark, and gloomy and silent as the grave. Suddenly a bright meteor-like substance appeared at the edge of the horizon, and the friar, to his unspeakable transport, discovered it to be a night fire-stage balloon. He hailed it, and in a few moments it was hovering over their heads; the accommodation ladder was let down, and Clara and her companion having ascended to the car, the balloon again rapidly sailed along.
“Where are we going?” asked Clara faintly.
“Och!” returned the friar, “and that’s what I nevher thought of asking, darling; but Heaven be praised that ye are so much better as to be able to bother yourself about it.
“We are going to Kensington, Miss,” said the balloon conductor.
“Kensington!” repeated Clara, clasping her hands together in transport—“thank God!”
“It’s a very good thing to be thankful anyhow,” said the father; “but I own I don’t see why you should cry out in such rapthure, when you find we are going the wrong road.”
“Oh! no, no, father;” returned Clara, “not the wrong road; for Kensington is the goal of all my wishes.”
“Poor thing! she is certainly disthracted,” thought Father Murphy. “The loss of her cousin has deprived her of her senses; but I will let her take her own way; perhaps she’ll be betther presently.”
“Where will you like to be set down?” asked the man.
“Near the prison,” cried Clara eagerly.
“Near the prison!” repeated Father Murphy, shrugging his shoulders. “Aye, aye, I was right.”
Not another word was spoken till the balloon stopped and the passengers were set down: all still was dark, save two lights which gleamed from a tower belonging to the prison, like the eyes of a mighty giant, and showed below a tall, clumsy-looking figure that marched with heavy, measured steps to and fro before the gates, whilst at a little distance lay a party of soldiers bivouacking. Clara shuddered as she looked at them, and hastily turning away, timidly approached the figure, and begged it to let her into the prison. It continued its march, but as it did not speak, she attempted to pass by it.
“No admittance,” said the figure, as she touched it, in trying to reach the door.
“I implore you,” cried Clara, wringing her hands in agony.
The figure did not reply, but continued its solemn tramp unmoved; its hollow steps falling heavily upon the ear at regular intervals. Driven to despair, Clara again endeavoured to rush past it; but as she again touched it, she was again repulsed whilst the figure reiterated its monotonous “No admittance!” Clara threw herself upon her knees before it in agony.
“Clara! Clara dear!” cried Father Murphy, attempting to raise her, “you are certainly quite beside yourself; don’t you see it is an automaton? Nothing can stop it but the proper check-string, and that is in the little guardhouse yonder, round which you see the soldiers lying.”
“Then they can admit me,” said Clara wildly, “they are men, and will surely listen to me:” then before the father could stop her, she flew towards them, and
