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After completing the foregoing tragedy, the
military procession resumed its march toward the
place appointed for accomplishing another. We
have already mentioned, that Mr. Wilson and the
ladies, for the purpose of avoiding this procession,
had taken another road on their return homewards.
It so happened, however, that they overtook it at
the entrance of Larne where the two roads joined.

“Oh! I shall see him again,” cried Ellen, “before
he dies.”

Mr. Wilson wished his party to avoid an interview,
which, he said, would only cause additional
distress to both parties. But Mrs. Brown cried
out; “Since Providence has once more brought me
so near my brother while he lives, I must see and
speak with him.”

The procession had stopped to form into ranks
for marching through the town. During this interval,
Mr. Wilson's carriage, containing himself and
the ladies, drew forward to the car on which
O'Halloran sat. Ellen, and her aunt, were soon
in his arms, and the commanding officer had the

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politeness to postpone the march, until the first
burst of their feelings subsiding, should allow them
to separate.

“My dear sister! my beloved daughter! do not
go with us further.” O'Halloran was thus replying
to their earnest entreaty to be permitted to remain
with him to the last, when their attention was
drawn to a man on horseback, who was galloping
down the hill, behind them, at the most furious
rate, with the dust, all rising in clouds around him,
as he flew along. The commander was about to
desire the ladies to resume their seats in the carriage,
and to order the procession to proceed, when
he perceived the advancing horseman. “It is,
perhaps, some express,” said he to Mr. Wilson,
with whom he had been conversing, “I shall delay
a few minutes.”

As soon as the horseman approached, “Oh!
father, it is Edward Barrymore,” exclaimed Ellen.
“He is come to see you die.”

“Are you the commander of this party?” inquired
the rider, who was indeed Edward, as he
advanced hastily to Colonel Parker. “I am,” was
the reply.

“Then, your duty is over on this occasion,” said
Edward, at the same time handing the colonel a
letter signed by the Lord Lieutenant, accompanied
with one from the governor of the fortress of Carrickfergus.

“This, I am glad to see, is a conditional pardon
for our prisoner,” said Colonel Parker.

“You will also observe that I am to be his jailer,
until the condition is complied with,” replied Edward.

“What, sir, are you the Mr. Barrymore here
mentioned?”

“That is my name, sir.”

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“Why, you were zealous, indeed, to be the courier
in this case.”

“It was a desperate case; I could entrust no
one else,” said Edward.

“You were right,” returned Parker. “I respect
your feelings, and shall for ever thank you for
taking this disagreeable business off my hands.
Guards, untie the prisoner! He is pardoned.”

Shouts of joy arose, and continued to rend the
air for many minutes, from an innumerable multitude
of people of all descriptions. Edward, in the
meantime, flew to his beloved, who on the first
mention of pardon, almost fainted with excess of
joy. He caught her gently by the arm; “Miss
O'Halloran, I hope you know me?” said he. She
turned round at the sound of the well known voice.
“Yes, O yes! it is you who have saved my grandfather's
life. Oh let me thus return you thanks,”
and without considering what she was about to do,
she attempted to throw herself on her knees before
him. But he caught her in his arms; “No, my
love!” he whispered, “God alone must be thanked
in that posture.”

“Oh! yes,” cried she, recovering her recollection,
“I knew not what I was doing. But I shall thank
God all the days of my life, for this kind providence.”

Mrs. Brown now approached Edward.

“Ah! Mr. Barrymore! what do we not owe
you?”

“I am already full repaid,” replied the youth,
as he gently pressed Ellen's hand. Immediately
a burning blush tinged her countenance; and sweet
confusion sparkled in her eyes. Edward now
handed the ladies into the carriage; and at Mr.
Wilson's request took his seat along with them,
that gentleman intending to go on foot with O'Halloran
to the inn.

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The press of people, however, became so great
round O'Halloran, every one anxious to congratulate
him, that he was obliged to accept of Jemmy
Hunter's kindness, who rode in among them, and
offered him his horse. The crowd soon spontaneously
formed into two parties; one of which followed
O'Halloran with loud acclamations to the
inn, while the other assembled round his deliverer.
A vague and exaggerated story had got among
them, that in his haste to bring the pardon from
Dublin, he had killed four horses, and by means
of such velocity alone had he been able to arrive
in time to save O'Halloran. An immense concourse
gathered around the carriage, in which he and the
ladies were seated, and unharnessing the horses,
drew them in triumph to the inn, while the women
from the doors and windows of the houses, showered
blessings on his head.

The party remained at the inn only until another
carriage was prepared, in which O'Halloran
and Mr. Wilson proceeded to the residence of the
latter, followed by Edward and the ladies, amidst
the blessings and acclamations of thousands of
joyful spectators.

When the party, after arriving at Mr. Wilson's,
had partaken of some refreshments, and their
minds were somewhat composed after the high excitement
of the day, O'Halloran requested a private
interview with Edward.

“It is a beautiful evening,” said he, “suppose
we walk out to the shrubbery. Methinks the free
enjoyment of woodland air, after my late confinement,
will be refreshing and tranquillizing to my
spirits.”

The shrubbery led to a small cascade or linn,
as it is called in that part of the country, to which
an imperceptible continuation of their walk soon led
them. This cascade, although small, was romantic.

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It was formed by a rivulet which ran through the
shrubbery, and emitting itself at this place, rushed
over the edge of a rocky precipice, about thirty feet
high, into a wide dell, or low level lawn which spread
towards the east, being bounded by the sea shore.
This lawn was clothed with the deepest verdure,
intermingled with myriads of wild flowers, with
the stream formed by the waters of the cascade,
rolling placidly through the midst of them. To
the westward, the side by which our gentlemen
approached this dell, it was bounded by a semicircular
extension of a grass-covered bank, varying
from twenty to thirty feet high, continued from
each side of the cascade about half way round the
small valley. On the brow of this bank, at a place
where it declined with a gentle slope into the valley,
the gentlemen sat down to contemplate the
scene. The saffron hue of the sky indicated the
setting sun behind them. Before them were to be
dimly seen, the blue hills of Scotland rising like
mist from the ocean at the extremity of the horizon.
Beneath them a flock of sheep, and several cows,
were enjoying the luxuriant herbage; while a
thrush seemingly delighted with the tranquillity and
beauty of the scene, expressed her joy in the full
swelling rapturous melody, peculiar to that charming
bird.

“What a contrast” said O'Halloran, “is this
holy scene, to that which I have so lately left! This
pure wholesome air to the suffocating loathsome
vapour inhaled by the unfortunate inmates of the
prison from which I have just come! How different
are my feelings now, from what they were at
this time yesterday evening! From the windows
of my prison, I then beheld the reflecting rays of
the setting sun, as I supposed for the last time. I
can now turn to that glorious luminary, and behold
him setting once more, with the pleasurable

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sensation of hope, that I may yet many times view the
same scene. It is only a few hours since I thought
I should never again see the most splendid of all
created objects, taking his diurnal farewell of my
native hills. Oh! what do I not owe to your active
friendship, to which, under Divine Providence,
I must ascribe this unexpected happiness?”

“In serving you,” replied Edward, “on this occasion,
I have only discharged a debt which I
owed you for my life; and we have now, to speak
in mercantile language, only balanced accounts.”

“Ah! sir,” exclaimed O'Halloran, “my subsequent
harsh conduct, did more than cancel any
claim I may have had on your gratitude for that
service. You were my guest; I broke the laws of
hospitality, and treacherously made you my prisoner.
Yes, hurried away from the dictates of my
better feelings, by an over anxious solicitude for the
success of an unfortunate enterprise, I forgot the
duty I owed to the sacred claim of a stranger under
the protection of my roof. It was a crime, it
was a foul crime, which, even in my then perverted
state of mind, I could not altogether justify to my
conscience, and which has since given me more uneasy
feelings than any other event of my life.
Your magnanimity now in preserving your persecutor,
demands all the atonement in my power to
make. To give this explanation of the state of
my feelings towards you, I have asked your privacy.
I need not entreat your forgiveness, for you
have proven already that you have forgiven me;
but I wish to convince you of my compunction for
the injuries I have done you.”

“I beg,” said Edward, “that you will not think
of that affair. Even when it took place, I was conscious
of your motives, and felt more for the pain
which the struggle between your inclinations and
your sense of duty occasioned you, than for the

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temporary confinement to which I was subjected.—
And, O! sir, let me disclose my whole mind
to you. I do not regret that captivity, for it resulted
in one of the most pleasing events of my life.
It brought an angel to unbar my prison doors; and
proved to me that I was not indifferent to the loveliest
of all created beings. I have said that you
owe me nothing. But if I have nothing to demand
from obligation, I have a precious gift to ask from
kindness. I love Miss O'Halloran; the hopes of
my life depend on her; consent that she shall be
mine, and you will make me happy; refuse me, and
you will render me indeed miserable.”

“Refuse you!” cried O'Halloran; “No! not if
I had an empire to give you with her;” and seizing
Edward by both his hands, he continued, “O
God, under whose canopy I now live, and breathe,
make me grateful for thy goodness, in thus providing
for the child of my heart a protector, and a
lover so worthy of her. Young man, I shed tears,
but they are tears of joy. I have shed none such,
since the day that the wife of my affection, presented
me with my only infant, and said `Behold
our child!' I felt I was then a father, I blest the
babe, and wept. I am still a father; that infant's
child is still left to me; and can I but weep at this
prospect of her happiness?—“But,” said he, suddenly
changing his tone, as if some new suggestion
had occurred to him, “Mr. Barrymore, are you
not too precipitate in this matter? In the first impulse
of delight at your proposal, I did not recollect
that you have relations rich and powerful.
Have they been consulted on the subject?”

“I confess,” replied Edward, somewhat embarrassed
with the question, “that I have not as yet
spoken to them concerning it. Having no hopes
of obtaining your consent, to the accomplishment
of my wishes, since I had incurred your

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displeasure, and knowing that without your's, her's could not
be obtained, I did not wish to acquaint my friends
that I cherished views of happiness which had so
little prospect of being realized.”

“Then,” said O'Halloran, “there are obstacles
I did not before perceive; and for the sake of my
child's peace, I request that this affair shall not,
for the present, be pushed farther.”

`What obstacles!' cried Edward. “I cannot think
that my father will oppose me in a point which so
nearly concerns my welfare. He has no son but
me. He is an affectionate father, and will not command
me to be wretched. Besides, what objections
can he have? Her beauty, her sweetness of disposition,
her virtue, her connexions—”

“Ah! stop,” cried O'Halloran, “there lies the
obstacle. Her connexions. Will the powerful, the
rich, the constitutional, the loyal family of the Barrymores
degrade itself by an alliance with a traitor,
a rebel, a ringleader of rebels, a man scarcely
escaped from the gallows! No, sir; by strongly
wishing for it, you may force yourself to expect it;
but cool reason tells me that it cannot be.”

“If I have any knowledge of my father's character,”
replied Edward, “he has too liberal a
mind to permit the errors of one individual to influence
his estimation of another, however nearly
they may be connected. Your being concerned
in the late conspiracy, will not, in his eyes, diminish
the worth of your granddaughter; nor, since you
have done nothing unworthy of a man of honour
and a gentleman, can any errors of a mere political
nature, communicate any thing degrading to one,
who is in herself all purity and excellence, and
worthy of the best and noblest in the empire.”

“You may think so, my young friend,” said
O'Halloran; “but your relations will not look on
her with your eyes. In the meantime, much as I

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should rejoice at your union with her, you must
permit me to retract my assent, until it receives
your father's; for unfortunate, poor and persecuted
as I am, I am too proud to permit my child to be
taken into a family, the head of which may look
on her as unworthy of such a situation.”

“Wherever Ellen is known,” said Edward, “she
cannot be thought unworthy of any situation.”

“But,” returned O'Halloran, “her grandfather's
unworthiness may be reflected on her.”

“Oh, sir,” said Edward, in a tone of entreaty,
“I shall procure the approbation of my family.
You will surely then be satisfied.”

“Not only satisfied but rejoiced,” replied O'Halloran.
“That they will yield to your wishes is
my earnest prayer; but whether they yield or not,
I shall ever be equally solicitous for your happiness
as for her's to whom I should wish you united.
For the present, however, we must drop the subject.”

They arose; and ascending a small eminence
on their way to the house, they perceived the
country for several miles round, studded with
bonfires; while the frequent shouts of mirth, that
broke upon the air, proclaimed the joy of the people
for O'Halloran's safety.

“This is a brilliant and romantic, and must be
to you a very gratifying scene,” observed Edward,
“for it proves how much you are esteemed by
these people.”

“They are a kind people,” replied O'Halloran.
“I only wish they were happier.” He heaved a
sigh, and silence ensued, until they arrived at the
house.

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