Lord Glandore busied him exceedingly; held important conferences with Sir Borlase and the commandant of the squireens. If the poor fellows were to be captured at all, it was a stroke of luck for him that they should have been taken within his jurisdiction. They should be packed off, by-and-by, in his own yacht to Rathmullen; he would go himself with the escort. The commandant at Letterkenny would send them on to Dublin; he, too, would ride thither. It would be wonderful if he did not receive an English marquisate as reward for his brilliant services. Meanwhile it behoved him to play _Grand Seigneur_. If there was one thing which could create a passing spirit of real generosity in his shallow nature, it was the sight of personal prowess. He always loved a good duel, a good cock-fight, a successful bear-baiting. Had he not been in the habit of fighting endless duels himself for a mere bubble reputation? His own rapier was rusty now from want of use; but, please the pigs, he would start afresh next week in the metropolis, and resume his crown and sceptre as King of Cherokees. This contest on the sea had been a delightful affair; the vanquished should quaff their fill of his very best claret--aye, the very primest. As he descended to the cellar he beheld Doreen doing woman's work. She was a kind creature, though stuck-up. She had summoned the maids with linen and water. They were moving quietly among the groups, whilst she, with high-bred courtesy, was whispering gentle words of consolation. There, in a remote corner, sat the two who had behaved so gallantly. Their fine scarlet capes and cuffs, and gold-bedizened hats, proclaimed them to be of the highest military rank. One was nursing his knee and whistling softly, as his mind wandered far away; the other was bent forward; his hands were clasped over his face; hot tears were trickling between his fingers. 'Be of good cheer,' the lively first one murmured; 'we shall see _la belle France_ again, no fear. We shall be ransomed by-and-by. You will again behold your wife and little ones.' Doreen swept with stately grace to where they sat. 'Are either of the gentlemen hurt?' she inquired in French. He who was bowed down looked up. She dropped the pitcher which she held, and staggered against the wall. 'Theobald--_here!_' she whispered. Alas! Yes. It was Theobald Wolfe Tone--thinner, paler, with all the youth gone out of him. 'It was not thus that I had expected to return,' he said in French, with a sorry smile. 'Yet what matters it? _Le temps et le malheur ont flêtri mon âme!_' Doreen speedily recovered her self-possession. 'How culpably rash!' she muttered. 'There is no one that knows you in this place who would betray you; you will pass for a Frenchman. I will warn Shane, that he may not show surprise. That you should have come at last! Too late--too late!'