With heartfelt thankfulness the girl, who went with them, listened to Shane's budget of gossip, as he tumbled it out, a confused medley, for his mother's benefit. This French expedition was but the wild freak of an adventurer unwisely brave. He and all his men--Frenchmen all--were gone in chains to Dublin, a mirth-provoking spectacle for the good townspeople, who were getting weary of badgered Croppies. The boys at Letterkenny were coming to his little _fête_--he was to send the yacht and a whole fleet of boats for them. It would be rare fun! By-the-bye, Sir Borlase Warren and some English ships of war were cruising somewhere close by--their mission to prevent another French band from landing, if another leader should be found as foolhardy as this Humbert. That was not likely. Sir Borlase would have his cruise for nothing. The laws of hospitality demanded that he should be entertained. Shane had left a message at the tower on Fanad Head to the effect that Lord Glandore would be glad to be civil to Sir Borlase. Maybe he and his officers would grace the prospective _fête_. With this Shane descended to the cellar, to look out some bottles of prime claret for the delectation of Cassidy. Being but a half-mounted, my lord had consistently treated that personage at Strogue with indulgent patronage mingled with hauteur; but now he was so tired of getting drunk alone, or with the rough skipper of his yacht, that he condescended to kill a fatted calf for the behoof of the new arrival. So the third French expedition had gone off like a damp squib! Doreen was in nowise sorry for the prisoners. Faithless as the French had been, great in promises which were never fulfilled, it served them right to be punished for their folly. But she was deeply thankful that Tone was not among them. It rather surprised her, till she reflected that her young hero was wise beyond his years, and far-sighted too. He saw, no doubt, as she did, that the moment was come and gone; that there was nothing for it but endurance now. He was galloping in his general's uniform on the banks of the Rhine, or perchance was one of Buonaparte's staff in Egypt or elsewhere. He had slaved with the power of a young Samson for motherland; but treachery had done her work--Samson was shorn. He could do no more. Like her, he could only wait. It was a mercy that his life was spared.