Thus was it, in the chaos produced by misrule, that these dissimilar members of an oppressed religion became acquainted at last. They had met so frequently over sick-beds or at Castle festivities that they seemed to be quite old friends, till the sound of an unfamiliar voice told them that it was not so. Is it not ofttimes thus? Do we not know a person so well by sight that every turn of expression seems to bind us to him till we hear his voice, which strikes us as strange, and, finding no echoing chord within our hearts, warns us that we are strangers? The attention of the three ladies was arrested by a hubbub within the provost. There was a sound of chains, then the chaunt arose in chorus which was become, through the irony of fate, so piteous a mockery: 'What rights the brave? The sword! What frees the slave? The sword!' Alas, alas! There was no sword now but that of an avenging tyrant; when might it be sheathed? Sara screened her face with her hand and cowered over her saddle-bow, for a dearly loved voice had been wont to sing that song. With deep thankfulness she remembered that the Destroying Angel who had been so busy was kind at least to her. It might have been Robert clanking his chains within that door. Thank Heaven, he was far away across the sea in London--safe! Sara, guiltily glad in the midst of so much sorrow, reined in her horse, which shied upon the sudden opening of the door. Another voice--whose well-known richness sent a thrill through the bosoms of Doreen and Gillin--trolled forth in answer the Orange Hymn of 'Croppies, lie down.' The singer stood with burly legs, like pillars, across the threshold, a huge dark shadow against the light behind--a shadow of evil to both Gillin and Doreen--Cassidy. 'Lie down, dogs! or ye'll have a taste of the triangles!' he bellowed over his shoulder in his racy brogue, ere he perceived that he was watched. Miss Wolfe's brow contracted, for this was the Cassidy without the mask, whose aspect at Glas-aitch-é had affected her like a snake; who had sold Theobald deliberately; whose real self was so different from the other one that would fain have been her lover. Presently he was aware of horses' hoofs, and recognised in the stream of radiance which poured across the road the brown velvet habit which he had been wont idiotically to sigh after. The sight of it did not improve his temper. He troubled not to assume the mask again, for the die was cast for better or for worse--by her. He was now an openly protected ruffian, a patronised Orange braggadocio. Rollicking, disrespectful, he jerked a thumb to his hat and grinned at Miss Wolfe.