Blake breathed hard, staring at Peebles with a face gone white. ‘Answer!’ cried the old man, ‘and for God’s sake answer truly!’ ‘Well, then,’ said Blake, ‘I was; but not when I married Moya Macartney to Lord Kilpatrick.’ ‘Had they unfrocked ye?’ asked Peebles. ‘Tell me that!’ ‘I’d unfrocked myself,’ answered Blake. ‘The Bishop said I was a disgrace and scandal to the Church, and took from me the only cure of souls I ever had.’ ‘But at the time ye married Moya were ye drummed out o’ the Kirk?’ ‘Devil the drum about it,’ responded Blake. ‘The Bishop persuaded me to quit, so I just civilly retired. ’Twas convanient at the time, for sure I had creditors enough to man a Queen’s ship.’ ‘But ye had been a priest, and properly ordained?’ asked Peebles. ‘Faith, I was as well ordained as any priest need be. What the divil’s the matter wid ye?’ he asked, as Peebles sprang from the seat he had taken and broke into a Highland fling. ‘Is it mad ye are?’ ‘Clean daft wi’ joy!’ cried the old man. ‘Gie’s your hand, man!’ He seized Blake’s hand and wrung it heartily. ‘By the piper that played before Moses, ye’re the Reverend Mr. Blake still!--and by that same token Moya Macartney is Lady Kilpatrick, and Desmond Macartney is Desmond Consel-tine, his lordship’s son and heir!’ The mention of the name of Conseltine electrified Blake. He clutched his whisky-muddled head in both hands, staring wildly before him. ‘My God!’ he cried suddenly, ‘is it dreamin’ that I am? No, by the Lord, ’tis no dream, sir! Get up, man, get up! ’Tis no time to be sittin’ here! They mean mischief--already it may be too late!’ ‘Too late! Too late for what?’ cried the old man. ‘Richard Conseltine and his boy, and Feagus the attorney--bad cess to the lot of ’em--were here this forenoon. They know Moya’s alive! They know where she lives! Oh, my head, my head! what was it the blackguards said? Ah!’ he screamed, ‘the mill! ’tis at Larry’s mill that Moya’s living!’ ‘Yes!’ cried Peebles. ‘She’s there. But what of that? Speak, man! what is it?’ ‘They mean to burn the mill, and her with it!’ cried Blake. ‘For the love o’ God, run and find Desmond, and get Moya out o’ the place. ’Twas here that they plotted it. Man alive, I believe they mean murder!’ ‘Murder!’ gasped Peebles. ‘Isn’t it life or death to them to keep Moya out o’ the way? Run, man! Run every step o’ the road! Ye’ve time to save her yet. They daren’t try it before nightfall. Doolan’s farm is on the way, and ye’ll find Desmond there. If ever ye loved him, run!’ Peebles, knowing the men with whom he had to deal, needed no further warning, but after a few more hasty words with Blake, ran rather than walked from Blake’s Hall. CHAPTER XI.--MOTHER AND SON.