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THE GOD FROM THE MACHINE - By Rudyard Kipling
T HE Inexpressibles gave a ball. They bor
rowed a seven-pounder from the Gun
ners, and wreathed it with laurels, and
made the dancing floor plate-glass, and pro
vided a supper, the like of which had never
been eaten before, and set two sentries at the
door of the room to hold the trays of pro-
gramme-cards. My friend, Private Mulvaney,
was one of the sentries, because he was the
tallest man In the regiment. When the dance
was fairly started the sentries were released,
and Private Mulvaney fled to curry favor with
the Mess Sergeant in charge of the supper.
Whether the Mess Sergeant gave or Mulvaney
took, I cannot say. All that I am certain of is
that, at supper time, I found Mulvaney with
Private Ortheris, two-thirds of a ham, a loaf of
bread, half a pate-de-foie-gras, and two mag
nums of champagne, sitting on the roof of my
carriage. As I came up I heard him saying—
“Praise be a danst doesn’t come as often as
Ord’ly-room, or, by this an’ that, Orth'rls, me
■on, I wud be the dishgrace av the rig’mint in-
■ tid av the brightest Jool in uts crown.’’
“Hand the Colonel’s pet noosince,” said Or
theris, who was a Londoner. “But wot makes
you curse your rations? This 'ere fizzy stuff’s
good enough.”
“Stuff, ye oncivillzed pagin! ’Tis champagne
we’re dhrinkin’ now. 'Tisn’t that I am set ag’in.
’Tis this quare stuff w r id the little bits av
black leather in it. I misdoubt I w r ill be dis-
tressin’ly sick wid it in the mornin’. Fwhat is
ut?”
“Goose liver,” I said, climbing on the top of
the carriage, for I knew that it was better te
sit out with Mulvaney than to dance many
dances. ^
“Goose liver is ut?” said Mulvaney. “Faith,
I'm thinkin’ thim that makes it wud do betther
to cut up the Colonel. He carries a power av
liver undher his right arrum whin the days
are warm an’ the nights chill. He wud give
thim tons an’ tons av liver. 'Tis he sez so.
‘I’m all liver to-day,’ sez he; an’ wid that he
ordhers me ten days C. B. for as molld a dhrlnk
as iver a good sodger tuk betune his teeth.”
“That was when 'e wanted for to wash 'isself
in the Fort Ditch,” Ortheris explained. “Said
there was too much beer in the Barrack water-
butts for a God fearing man. You was lucky
In gittin’ orf with wot you did, Mulvaney.”
“You say so? Now I’m pershuaded I was
cruel hard trated, seein’ fwhat I’ve done for
the likes av him in the days whin my eyes were
wider opin than they are now. Man alive, for
the Colonel to whip me on the peg in that way!
Me that have saved the repitation av a ten
times better man than him! 'Twas ne-farious,
in’ that manes a power av evil!”
“Never mind the nefariousness,” I said.
“Whose reputation did you save?”
“More’s the pity, 'twasn’t my own, but I tuk
more trouble wid ut than av ut was. ’Twas
just my w'ay, messin’ wid fwhat was no busi
ness av mine. Hear now!” He settled himself
at ease on the top of the carriage. “I’ll tell you
all about ut. Av coorse I will name no names,
for there’s wan that’s an orf’cer’s lady now,
that was in ut, and no more will I name places,
for a man Is thracked by a place.”
“Eyah!” said Ortheris lazily, “but this is a
mixed story wot’s cornin’.”
“Wanst upon a time, as the childer-books say,
1 was a recruity.”
“Was you though?” said Ortheris, "now
that's extryordinary!”
“Orth’rls,” said Mulvaney, "av you opin thim
lips av yours again, I will, savin’ your presince,
Sorr, take you by the slack av your trousers
an’ heave you.”
“I’m mum,” said Ortheris. “Wot 'appened
when you was a recruity?”
“I was a betther recruity than you iver was
or will be, but that's neither here nor there.
Thin 1 became a man, an* the divil of a man I
was fifteen years ago. They called me Buck
Mulvaney in thim days, an’, begad, I tuk a
woman’s eye. I did that! Ortheris, ye scrub,
fwhat are ye sniggerin’ at? Do you misdoubt
me?”
“Devil a doubt!” said Ortheris; “but I’ve
'eard summat like that before!”
Mulvaney dismissed the impertinence w-ith
a lofty wave of his hand and continued—-
“An the orf-cers of the rig-mint I was in
In thim days was orf-cers—gran’ men, wid a
manner on ’em, an’ a way wid ’em such as is
not made these days—all but wan—wan o’ the
capt’ns. A bad dhrill, a w'ake voice, an’ a limp
leg—thim three things are the signs av a bad
man. You bear that in your lid, Mr. Orth’ris, me
son.
“An’ the Colonel av the rig'ment had a daugh
ter—wan av thim lamblike, bleatin’, pick-me-
up-an’-carry-me-or-I’ll-die gurls such as was
made for the natural prey av men like the
Capt’n, who was iverlastin’ payin’ coort to her.
though the Colonel he said time an’ over, ‘Kape
out av the brute’s way, my dear.’ But he niver
had the heart for to send her away from the
throuble, bein’ as Tie was a widower, an’ she
their wan child.”
“Stop a minute, Mulvaney,” said I, “how in
the world did you come to know these things?”
“How did I come?” said Mulvaney, with a
scornful grunt; “bekase I’m turned durin’ the
Quane’s pleasure to a lump av wood, lookin’ out
straight fornlnst me, wdd a—a—candelabbrum
in my hand, for you to pick your cards out av,
must I not see nor feel? Av coorse I du! Up
my back, an’ in my boots, an’ in the short
hair av the neck—that’s were I kape my eyes
whin I’m on duty an’ the reg’lar wans are
fixed. Know! Take my w'ord for it, Sorr, ivery
thing an’ a great dale more is known in a rig’
mint; or fwhat wud be the use av a Mess Sar-
gint, or a Sargint’s wife doin’ wet nurse to the
Major’s baby? To reshume. He was a bad
dhrill w'as this Capt’n—a rotten bad dhrill—an'
whin first I ran me eye over him, I sez to my
self: ‘My Militia bantam!’ I sez, ‘my cock av a
Gosport dunghill’—’twas from Portsmouth he
came to us—‘there’s combs to be cut,’ sez I,
‘an by the grace av God, ’tis Terence Mulvaney
will cut thim.’
“So he wdnt menowdein’, and minanderin', an’
blandandherin’ roun’ an’ about the Colonel’s
daughter, an’ she, poor innocint, lookin’ at him
like a Comm'ssariat bullock looks at the Corhp’-
ny cook. He’d a dhirty little scrub av a black
mustache, an’ he twisted an’ turned ivery wurrd
he used as av he found ut too sweet for to spit
out. Eyah! He was a tricky man an’ a liar by
natur’. Some are born so. He was wan. I
knew he was over his belt in money borrowed
from natives; besides a lot av other matthers
which, in regard for your presince, Sorr, I will
oblitherate. A little av fwhat I knew the Col
onel knew, for he wud have none av him, an'
that, I’m thinkin’, by fwhat happened after
wards, the Capt’n knew'.
“Wan day, bein’ mortlal idle, or they wud
never ha’ thried ut, the rig’mint gave amshure
theatricals—orf-cers an’ orf'cers’ ladies. You’ve
seen the likes time an’ agin, Sorr, an’ poor fun
'tis for them that sit in the back row an’ stamp
wdd their boots for the honor av the rig’mint.
I was told off for to shif the scenes, haulin’ up
this an’ draggin’ down that. Light work ut
w r as, wid lashins av beer and the gurl that
dhressed the orf'cers’ ladies . . . but she
died in Aggra tw'elve years gone, an’ my
tongue's gettin’ the betther av me. They was
actin’ a play thing called ‘Sweethearts,’ which
you may ha’ heard av, an’ the Colonel’s daugh
ter she was a lady’s maid. The Capt’n was a
boy called Broom—Spread Broom w'as his name
in the play. Thin I saw—ut cbme in the actin’
—fwhat I niver saw' before, an’ that was that
he w r as no gentleman. They was too much to
gether, thim tw'o, a-whishperin’ behind the
scenes I shifted, an’ some av what they said
I heard; for I w'as death—blue death an’ ivy—
on the comb-cuttin’. He was iverlastin’ly op
pressing her to fail in wdd some .^sneakin’
schame av his, an’ she w'as thryin’ to stand out
against him, but not as though she w’as set In
her will. I wonder now' in thim days that my
ears did not grow a yard on me head wid 11st’-
nin’. But I looked straight forninst me, an’
hauled up this an’ dragged down that, such as
was my duty, an’ the orf’cers’ ladies sez on
one to another, thinkin’ I was out av listen-
reach: ‘Fwhat an obligin’ young man is this
Corp'ril Mulvaney!’ I was a Corp’ril then. I
w'as rejuced aftherwards, but. no matther, I
was a Corp’ril wanst.
“Well, this ‘Sweethearts’ business wlnt on
like most amshure theatricals, an’ barrin’ fwhat
I suspicioned, ’tw'asn’t till the dhress-rehearsal
that I saw for certain that thim tw'o—he the
blackguard, an’ she no wiser than she should
ha’ been—had put up an evasion.”
“A what?” said I.
“E-vasion! Fwhat you lorruds an’ ladies call
an elopemint. E-vasion I calls it, bekaze, ex
ceptin’ whin ’tis right an’ natural an’ proper,
’tis w'rong an’ dhirty to steal a man's wan child
not knowin’ her own mind. There w r as a Sar-
gint in the Comm-ssariat who set my face upon
e-vasions. I’ll tell you about that”
“Stick to the bloomin' Captains, Mulvaney,”
said Ortheris; “Comm’ssariat Sargints is low'.”
Mulvaney accepted the emendation and went
on:—
“Now I knew that the Colonel was no fool,
any more than me, for I was hiId the smartest
man in the rig’mint, an’ the Colonel was the
best orf’cer commandin’ in Asia; so fwhat ho
said an’ I said was a mortlal truth. We knew
that the Capt’n was bad, but, for reasons which
I have already oblitherated, I knew more than
me Colonel. I w’ud ha’ rolled out his face wid
the butt av my gun before permittln’ av him
to steal the gurl. Saints knew av he wud ha‘
married her, and av he didn’t she wud be in
great tormint, an’ the divil av what you, Sorr.
call a ‘scandal.’ But I niver sthruck, niver
raised me hand on my shuperior orf’cer; an’
that was a merrlcle now I come to considher
it.”
“Mulvaney, the dawn’s risin’,” said Ortheris,
“an’ we’re no nearer ’ome than we was at the
tteginnin’. Lend me your pouch. Mine’s all dust.”
Mulvaney pitched his pouch across, and filled
his pipe afresh.
“So the dhress rehearsal came to an end, an’,
bekaze I was curious, I stayed behind whin the
scene-shiftin' wa» ended, an’ I shud ha’ been in
barricks, lyin’ as flat as a toad under a painted
cottage thing. They was talkin In whispers, an’
she was shiverin’ an’ gaspin' like a fresh-hukked
fish. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the hang av the
manewvers?’ sez he, or wurrds to that effec’, as
the coort-martial sez. ‘Sure as death,’ sez she.
’but I misdoubt tis cruel hard on my father.'
‘Damn your father,’ sez he, or anyways ’twas
fwhat he thought, 'the arrangement is as clear
as mud. Junki will drive the carri’ge afther
all’s over, an’ you come to the station, cool an’
aisy, in time for the two o’clock thrain, where
I'll be wid your kit.’ ‘Faith,’ thinks I to my
self, ‘thin there's a ayah in the business tu!’
“A powerful bad thing is a ayah. Don’t you
niver have any thruck wid wan. Thin he began
sootherin’ her, an’ all the orfcers an’ orf'cers’
ladies left, an’ they put out the lights. To ex
plain the theory av the flight, as they say at
Muskthry, you must understand tftat afther
this ‘Swethearts' nonsense was ended, there
was another little bit av a play called “Couples”
—some kind av couple or another. The gurl
was actin’ In this, but not the man. I sus-
spicioned he’d go to the station wid the gurl's
kit at the end av the first piece. 'Twas the kit
that flusthered me. for I know for a Capt’n to
go trapesing about the impire wid the Lord
knew what av a truso on his arrum was ne
farious, an’ wud be w’orse than easin’ the flag,
so far as the talk aftherwards wint.”
“’Old on, Mulvaney. Wots truso?” said Or
theris.
“You’re an onclvllized man, me son. Whin a
gurl’s married, all her kit an' ’coutrements are
truso, which manes w'eddin’-portion. An’ 'tis
the same whin she’s runnin’ away, even wid the
biggest blackguard on the Arrmy List.
“&o I made my plan av campaign. The Col
onel’s house w'as a good two miles away. ‘Den
nis,’ sez I to my color-sargint, ‘av you love me,
lend me your kyart, for me heart is bruk an*
me feet is sore wid trampin’ to and from this
foolishness at the Gaff.’ An’ Dennis lent ut.
wid a rampin’, stampin’ red stallion in the
shafts. Whin they was all settled down to their
•Sweethearts’ for the first scene, which was a
long wan, I slips outside and into the kyart.
Mother av Hivin! but I made that horse w'alk.
an’ w'e came into the Colonel’s compound as
the divil w'int through Athlone—in standin’
leps. There was no one there excipt the ser-
vints, an’ I wint round to the back an’ found
the girl’s ayah.
“ ‘Ye black brazen Jezebel,’ sez I, ’sellln’ your
masther’s honor for five rupees—pack up all
the Miss Sahib’s kit, an’ look slippy! Capt’n
Sahib s order,’ sez I; 'going to the station we
are,’ I sez. an’ w'id that I laid my finger to my
nose an’ looked the schamin' sinner I was.
“’Bote acchy,’ says she; so I knew she was
In the business, an’ I piled up all the sweet
talk I’d iver learnt in the bazars on to this
she-bullock; an’ prayed av her to put all the
quick she knew into the thing. While she
packed, I stud outside an’ sweated, for I w'as
wanted for to shif’ the second scene. I tell you,
a young gurl’s e-vasion manes as much bag
gage as a rig’mint on the line av march! ‘Saints
help Dennis’s springs,’ thinks 1, as I bundled
the stufT Into the thrap, ’for I’ll have no mercy!’
“ ‘l‘m cornin’ too,’ says the ayah.
“ ‘No, you don’t, sez I, ’later—pechy! You
baito where you are. I’ll pechy come an’ bring
sart, along w'lth me, you maraudin’ '—niver
mind fwhat I called her.
“Thin I wint for the Gaff, an’ by the special
ordher av Providence, for I was doin’ a good
work you will ondersthand, Dennis’s springs
hild toight. ‘Now. whin the Capt’n goes for
that kit,’ thinks I, ‘he’ll be throubled.’ At the
end av “Sweethearts” off the Capt’n runs in his
kyart to the Colonel’s house, an’ I sits down on
the steps and laughs. Wanst an' again I slipped
in to see how the little piece was goin’, whin ut
was near endin’ I stepped out all among the
carriages an’ sings out very softly, ‘Jungil*
Wid that a carr’ge began to move, an’ I waved
to the dhriver. ‘Tltherao!’ sez I, an’ he hlth-
eraoed till I Judged he was at proper distance,
an’ thin I tuk him, fair an' square betune the
eyes, all I knew for good or bad, an’ he
dhropped wid a guggle like the canteen beer-
engine whin ut’s runnin’ low. Thin I raji to the
kyart an’ tuk out all the kit an’ piled it into
the carr’ge, the sweet runnin’ down my face
in dhrops. 'Go home.’ sez I, to the sals; ’you’ll
find a man close here. Very sick he is. Take
him away, an’ av you iver say wan wurrd
about fwhat you've dekkoed, I’ll marrow you
till your own wife won’t sumjao who you are!*
Thin I heard the stampin' av feet at the ind
av the play, an* I ran In to let down the cur
tain. Whin they all came out the girl thried
to hide herself behind wan av the pillars, an’
sez ‘Jungi’ in a voice that wudn’t ha’ scared a
hare. I ran over to Jungi’s carr’ge an’ tuk up
the lousy old horse-blanket on the box, wrapped
my head an’ the rest av me in ut, an’ dhrove
up to where she was.
“‘Miss Sahib,' sez I; ‘going to the station?
Captain Sahib’s order!' an’ widout a si^n she
jumped in all among her own kit.
“I laid to an’ dhruv like steam to the Col
onel’s house before the Colonel was there, an’
she screamed an’ I thought she was goin’ off.
Out comes the ayah, saying all sorts av things
about the Capt’n havin’ come for the kit an’
gone to the station.
“ ‘Take out the luggage, you divil,’ sez I, *or
I'll murther you!’
“The lights av the thraps people cornin’ from
the Gaff was showin’ acrost the parade ground,
an.’ by this an’ that, the way thim two women
worked at the bundles an' thrunks was a cau
tion! I was dyin’ to help, but, seein’ I didn’t
want to be known, I sat wid the blanket roun’
me an’ coughed an' thanked the Saints there
was no moon that night.
“Whin all was in the house again, I niver
asked for buckshish but dhruv tremenjus In the
opp’site way from the other carr’ge an’ put
out my lights. Preslntly I saw a naygur man
wallowin' in the road. I slipped down before
I got to him, for I suspicioned Providence was
wid me all through that night Twas Jungi,
his nose smashed in flat, all dumb sick as you
please. Dennis’s man must have tilted him out
av the thrap. W r hin he came to, ‘Hutt!’ sez I, but
he began to howl.
“ ‘You black lump av dirt,’ I sez, Ms this the
way you dhrive vour gharri? That tikka has
been owin’ and’ fere-owin’ all over the bloom.n’
country this whole bloomin’ night, an’ you as
mut-walla as Davey’s sow. Get up, you hog!’
sez I, louder, for I heard the wheels av a
thrap in the dark; ‘get up an' light your lamps,
or you’ll be run Into!’ This was on the road
to the railway station.
“ ‘Fwhat the divll’s this?* sez the Capt’n’s
voice in the dhark, an’ I could judge he was
in a lather av rage.
“ ‘Gharri dhriver here, dhrunk, Sorf,’ sez I;
‘I’ve found his kharri sthrayin’ about canton-
mints. an’ now I’ve found him.’
“‘Oh!’ sez the Capt’n; ‘fwhat’s his name?* I
stooped down an’ pretended to listen.
“ ‘He sez his name'o Jungi, Sorr,’ sez I.
“ ‘Hould my harse,’ sez the Capt’n to his man;
an’ wid that he gets down wid the whip an’
lays into Jungi, just mad wid rage an’ swearln’
like the scutt he was.
“I thought, after a while, he wud kill the
man, so I sez: ‘Stop, Sorr. or you’ll murdjier
him!’ That dhrew all his fire on me, an’ he
cursed me into Blazes, an’ out again. I stud to
attenshin an’ saluted: ‘Sor,’ sez I ‘av ivery
man In this wurruld had his rights, I’m thinkin’
that more than wan wud be beaten,to a shakin’
jelly for this night’s work—that never came off
at all, Sorr, as you see!’ ‘Now,’ thinks I to my
self, ‘Terence Mulvaney, you’ve cut your own
throat, for he'll sthrlke, an’ you’ll knock him
down for the good av his sowl an’ your own
Iverlastin’ dishgrace!’
“But the Capt’n never said a single wurrd.
He choked where he stud, an’ thin he went into
his thrap widout sayin’ good-night, an’ I wint
back to barricks.”
“And then?” said Ortheris and I together.
“That was all,” said Mulvaney; “niver another
word did I hear av the whole thing. All I know
was that there was no e-vasion, an’ that was
fwhat I wanted. Now, I put ut to you, Sorr, is
ten days’ C. B. a fit an’ a proper tratement for
a man who has behaved as me?"
“Well, ony’ow,” said Ortheris, “ 'tweren’t this
’ere Colonel’s daughter, an' you was blazin’
copped when you tried to wash In the Fort
Ditch.”
“That,” said Mulvaney, finishing the cham
pagne, “is a shuparfluous an’ lmpert’nint obser
vation.”
A Colleen’s Reward - By C. J. Hamilton
D URING the beginning of March, in the re
bellion year of ’98, there were many
signs in the south and east of Ireland
that a crisis in the history of the country was
approaching with rapid strides.
From Lord Innismore’s house a party went
out on a dull March morhing to shoot over
Dunrahen Mountain. The sport was not good;
snips were scarce, and as the afternoon drew
on the party separated, and one young English
militia officer of the name of Harvey Vevasour
found, to his intense disgust, that he was quite
alone. His shouts brought no answer. His
companions had vanished as if by magic.
He did not perceive that the ground shelved
suddenly. As he put one foot forward, the earth
gave way under him, and down he fell, a dis
tance of about twenty feet.
Stunned and shaken, he remained for a min
ute, half-unconscious. He was roused by seeing
around him a mass of angry faces. A tall man
in a green uniform, with a green feather at
the side of his cap, called out: “Silence, boys;
I’ll soon find out what this means.”
Then, standing over Vevasour and shaking
him by the shoulder, he cried: “Here, you, sir.
what business have you here? Are you a spy?
If you are I’ll shoot you dead, by Heaven, I
will! Speak the truth; who are you and why
are you carrying a gun?”
“My gun Isn't loaded,” said Vevasour, who
felt rather inclined to laugh; “I discharged it
a n hour ago. I am quite peaceable, I assure
you. 1 was out shooting with a party from
Innismore Castle and I lost my way. That s
Ml.”
“Will you swear that it’s the truth you're
after telling?”
“I’ll swear anything you like.” said \ evasour.
“What are you going to do w'ith me now’?”
asked Vevasour. “VVill you show me the way
back to Innismore Castle—yes or no?
“You're ten Irish miles away from it; you
can't get back to-night. We'll give you board
and lodging for nothing. Here, Pat Brennan
and Ned Doig, tie this gentleman's feet and
hands hard and fast and carry him over be
yond, you know where, and leave him till
called for. We’ll relieve him of his gun; it is
a good one and will be useful to us.”
As Vevasour was bound and carried away he
heard again that strange sound of many feet,
with the words of command coming now' and
then, like pistol shots into the silent air.
They stopped at length before a tall white
house standing by itself. It had a forbidding
aspect.
Up the wide, oak staircase Vevasour w'as
carried, and finally deposited in a garret with
a sloping ceiling. The two men laid Vevasour
down on the floor, and with a coarse jibe went
away, locking the door behind them.
Presently a faint rustling w’as heard outside
and the door was opened. This time it was a
girl who appeared in the doorway, slim and
slight, holding a rushlight in one hand. She
stared at Vevasour with her black-lashed gray
eyes, and then she spoke.
“What did you come here disturbing us for?”
she asked fiercely.
“It was my misfortune, not my fault,” an
swered Vevasour. ”1 simply lost my way on
that infernal mountain; I believe it's bewitched.”
'‘Well, and now?” she said.
“Now things are not much better. Here I
am, bound hand and foot, not able to move, and
as hungry as a hunter, without a bit to eat.”
“If I unfasten you, will you promise not to
try to escape?”
“I promise on the honor of an officer and a
gentleman.”
“An officer!” repeated the girl. “Are you an
officer, then?”
“Yes. a captain in His Majesty's Royal Berk
shire Regiment of Militia."
"Ah! And your name?’’
“My name is Harvey Vevasour, very much
at your service. And your name, my fair de
liverer, w'hat is it, that I may remember It in
my prayers?” He bent on her, as he spoke, a
look of undisguised admiration. 8he colored
and answered hastily:
“My name is Maureen Conolly.”
“Maureen! That Is something uncommon,
isn’t it?”
“It is the Irish word for little Mary.”
‘‘But you are not little,” with a glance at
her somewhat tall figure.
“I suppose I was once. And now' I will go
and get you something to eat. No. don’t thank
me yet. Maybe I can’t find very much, but I’ll
do my best.”
In a few minutes she returned, carrying a
little round table, which she pushed in before
her. On it she placed half a cold chicken, a
piece of cold bacon and a square of soda bread,
w'ith a roll of butter and a glass of milk.
“That’s all I can find," she said regretfully.
"A meal fit for an emperor,” answered Veva
sour. “That fellow in the green uniform. Who
Is hQ'”’
“He is my brother—my only brother.”
“Conolly, too, I suppose?”
She nodded assent. “Now, If you have fin
ished, I w’ill take these things away, please.
"No, no, you mustn’t. Let me help you.”
“Certainly not. If you move from this room
you will break your word of honor as an officer
and a gentleman. Remember that.”
Three months after the night whe n Vevasour
w’as lost on Dunrahen Mountain, Ireland was
in a blaze; the English militia was called out,
and tho Royal Berkshire, with Vevasour as one
of the captains, w'as sent to a lonely district
where a camp was hastily formed. One even
ing, w’hen Vevasour and his company had come
back from a long and unsuccessful hunt after
rebels, he found that a party had just returned
from another raid, bringing with them a tall
young man in tattered green uniform, with
bedraggled feathers on one side of his cap His
head was bound up with a blood-stained ban
dage.
“Here's one of 'em!” cried the Colonel In
great excitement; “a leader, they say, a cap
tain, no less! - ' The fellow was hiding in a hay
rick and they dragged him out. Not a bad
set-up chap, is he?”
Vevasour looked at him. To his amazement
he saw that the man before him was no other
than the one he had come across on Dunrahen
Mountain drilling his company.
“Your name is Conolly. I think?” he said in
a low voice.
“Yes. Beauchamp Conolly,” was the answer.
“To be shot early to-morrow morning,” put
in the Colonel. “Don’t forget that. We’ll give
you a soldier's death, though you don’t de
serve it, eh?”
“And what are you going to do with the
fellow now, sir?” asked Vevasour.
"Oh, chuck him into the cellar and leave
him there. He can't get out.”
As Vevasour was in his tent that evening he
was surprised by an orderly, who said:
“Beg pardon, sir, but there’s a person out
side w'ho wants to have a word with you.”
“Who is he and what’s his business?” said
Vevasour sharply.
“It’s not a ‘he,’ sir; it’s a ‘she’—seems like
a young lady. I told her to go away and wait
till morning, but I can’t get rid of her jjohow.
She gave me this bit of paper to show you.”
Vevasour glanced carelessly at It, Its strag
gling pencil marks read: “Maureen Conolly—
I must see you.”
“Tell the young lady I will see her.
The next minute Maureen stood before him.
As her pleading eyes met Vevasour’s, she cried:
“I had to come to you—I was bound to come.
My brother, my dear, dear brother”
‘Yes. 1 know.” said Vevasour, taking her
hand; “I know. I am very sorry, but I am
afraid nothing ca n be done.”
"Don't say that!” sh e exclaimed, almost
fiercely. “Something can be done—must be
done, and you—you are the one to do It!”
“I? Let me assure you, my dear Miss Conolly,
that however much I may wish to help you
and your brother, I am quit© powerless to do
so. The Colosel has given the order—I heard
him myself. Conolly Is to be shot to-morrow
morning at eight o’clock.”
“Never!” cried the girl, starting up. “I shall
be shot myself rather than him. Mr. Vevasour,
I helped you once. Do you refuse to help me
now?”
“What Is It you wish me to do?” he asked
In a softer tone. “What do you propose?”
"I—I don’t know exactly, but I want you to
see him yourself. Can’t you get an order to
see him from the Colonel?”
“I might; I can ask. at any rate. And then?”
“Why, then,” she exclaimed eagerly. “Some
inspiration will come to you—you will contrive
some way for him to escape. In a dream last
night I saw you unfastening my brother’s hands
as—as I once did to you,” she added, with
downcast eyes.
“I know, I know. Can I ever forget? You
were my good angel.”
"And now It is your turn!” cried Maureen.
“Be my brother’s good angel.” She sank on
her knees, but Vevasour raised her up.
"No, no. Miss Conolly. No, no, Maureen—I
may say Maureen, mayn't I? You must not
kneel to me; it is I who should kneel to you,
for I love you, heart and soul, as I never loved
any woman before. God is my witness that I
do! I will do what I can to save your brother.”
The Colonel happened to be In good humor.
To Vevasour’s request to be allowed to see the
prisoner Conolly that evening the Colonel an
swered :
“Why. of course you can, if you want to see
such a pestilent fellow.”
Vevasour did not answer.
He found the prisoner lying on his earthen
floor in a state of utter misery and dejection.
“Something has Just occurred to me,’* said
Vevasour, "if we can only carry It out.”
“What? What? Speak low, those guards up
above may be listening.
“We are both about the same height and
build. You could overpower me, take my uni
form and leave me yours. I will remain here
till morning. Go up above. Put your handker
chief to your face—say your nose is bleeding
or something like that—and then be off out
of the country as fast as you can, and promise
never to take up arms against King George
again.”
In the gray light of early morning, when
the guard came down to the cellar, they found
a man clothed in the tattered green uniform
who, when he raised his face, showed the well-
known features of Harvey Vevasour.
"That rascally rebel got the better of me
last night—held me to the ground and robbed
me of my uniform, leaving me his own rags.”
Over their substantial breakfast Colonel
Knox chattered pleasantly with Vevasour.
Some evening after Conolly’s escape Veva
sour saw a girlish figure In a peasant's dress
outside his tent, carrying a v basket of eggs.
"Maureen! What are you doing here? You
may be discovered. You are running us both
a terrible risk.”
“Oh. if it s putting you In danger I’ll be off,”
she whispered.
“And what reward are you going to give me,
Maureen?”
“What reward. It it?” *eh said softly. “Sure,
what reward can I gfve you but this?” and
she put her arms round his neck and kissed
him again and again.
“I shall see you again soon,” he said, as he
let her out of the tent.
“Yes.” she answered simply. “I know you
• will. Goodby and heaven's blessing attend you.
and my prayers shield you from harm.”
Not a year afterward Harvey Vevasour
brought an Irish bride to his Berkshire home.