He had dallied too long with his love, and now it became a race for his commission, and his career. In the still cool night he fancied he heard the train approaching miles away, the faint, muffled rumble becoming more and more distinct. He ran the last mile downhill at extraordinary speed, and dashed into the junction just as the signal was lowered, and the night mail to Cork came thundering over the points. “It had been a narrow shave, and he had only just done it,” Ulick said to himself, as he sat in a corner of an empty smoking carriage. When the express moved on, he seemed every now and then to see Mary Foley’s beautiful wistful face gazing at him from the other side of the glass. But no; it was a mirage--a mere mocking fancy! All that was visible through the clear pane, was the flying landscape, the high full moon, and the melancholy dark mountains of his native land. END OF PART I PART II CHAPTER IX A brisk little gentleman, with a sharp profile and a slight stoop, was walking along a road in the south of Kerry. He had a somewhat lost, undecided air as he halted now and then, and vaguely stared about him. He was, in fact, a total stranger to the locality, being a certain Mr. Bence Usher, head of a well-known firm of London solicitors, who was spending his vacation for the first time in Ireland, and Ireland’s beauty had decoyed him far astray; the active, enterprising tourist was a good five miles from his hotel and his dinner--he was exploring alone, for Emily Usher, his housekeeper and sister, preferred to sit in the shady garden at the “Glenveigh Arms,” in company with the hotel tortoise and a new novel. As he moved onwards, sheer above him rose the purple Reeks; low on the right hand glittered a silver lake, of which each bend in the way, or break among the trees, revealed an enchanting vista of wooded islands, bays, or promontories. By degrees the prospect became lost to sight, and at length a high, dilapidated wall screened it completely--a wall bulging out dangerously here and there, but held together with ropes of ancient ivy. An equally dilapidated entrance presently came into view, and perched on one of the tumbledown gate piers sat an old man in his Sunday clothes, smoking a short black dhudeen. This he removed from his mouth in order to say, “A fine evening, yer honour”--for the southern-born peasant is always gracious, and never meets a stranger without some civil salute. “Can you tell me whereabouts I am?” inquired the Englishman, in his thin, polite voice. “And to be sure I can! An’ why wouldn’t I?” he returned, with unexpected emphasis. “This place,” indicating a grass-grown avenue which wound away vaguely among the trees, “is called Lota, but sure, ’tis in ruins. An empty house hereabouts falls to pieces in ten years’ time. ’Tis the soft climate as does it.” “How far am I from the ‘Glenveigh Hotel’?”