One evening in the month of March, 1798,--that dark time in Ireland’s annals whose memory (overlooking all minor subsequent _emeutes_) is still preserved among us, as “the year of the rebellion”--a lady and gentleman were seated near a blazing fire in the old-fashioned dining-room of a large lonely mansion. They had just dined; wine and fruit were on the table, both untouched, while Mr. Hewson and his wife sat silently gazing at the fire, watching its flickering light becoming gradually more vivid as the short Spring twilight faded into darkness. At length the husband poured out a glass of wine, drank it off, and then broke silence, by saying-- “Well, well, Charlotte, these are awful times; there were ten men taken up to-day for burning Cotter’s house at Knockane; and Tom Dycer says that every magistrate in the country is a marked man.” Mrs. Hewson cast a frightened glance towards the windows, which opened nearly to the ground, and gave a view of the wide tree-besprinkled lawn, through whose centre a long straight avenue led to the high-road. There was also a footpath at either side of the house, branching off through close thickets of trees, and reaching the road by a circuitous route. “Listen, James!” she said, after a pause; “what noise is that?” “Nothing but the sighing of the wind among the trees. Come, wife, you must not give way to imaginary fears.” “But really I heard something like footsteps on the gravel, round the gable-end--I wish”-- A knock at the parlor door interrupted her. “Come in.” The door opened, and Tim Gahan, Mr. Hewson’s confidential steward and right-hand man, entered, followed by a fair-haired delicate-looking boy of six years’ old, dressed in deep mourning. “Well, Gahan, what do you want?” “I ask your Honor’s pardon for disturbing you and the mistress; but I thought it right to come tell you the bad news I heard.” “Something about the rebels, I suppose?” “Yes, Sir; I got a whisper just now that there’s going to be a great rising intirely, to-morrow; thousands are to gather before daybreak at Kilcrean bog, where I’m told they have a power of pikes hiding; and then they’re to march on and sack every house in the country. I’ll engage, when I heard it, I didn’t let the grass grow under my feet, but came off straight to your Honor, thinking maybe you’d like to walk over this fine evening to Mr. Warren’s, and settle with him what’s best to be done.” “Oh, James! I beseech you, don’t think of going.” “Make your mind easy, Charlotte; I don’t intend it: not that I suppose there would be much risk; but, all things considered, I think I’m just as comfortable at home.” The steward’s brow darkened, as he glanced nervously towards the end window, which, jutting out in the gable, formed a deep angle in the outer wall.