My father listened with intense eagerness to every word of this appeal. Not even the flattery to himself was more pleasing than the glimpses he caught of a great national struggle, in which Ireland should come out triumphant. Such visions were amongst the memories of his boyish enthusiasm, begotten in the wild orgies of a college life, and nurtured amidst the excesses of many a debauch; and although foreign travel and society had obliterated most of these impressions, now they came back with tenfold force, in a moment when his mind was deeply agitated and excited. For an instant he had been carried away by this enticing theme; he had actually forgotten, in his ardor the terrible incident which so lately he had passed through, when Raper rushed hurriedly into the room where they sat, exclaiming,-- “A dreadful murder has taken place in the city. Mr. Rutledge, of the Viceroy's household, was found dead this morning in Stephen's Green.” “Within the Green?” asked Fagan. “What could have brought him there after nightfall? There must have been some assignation in the case.” “Do you know, have you heard any of the circumstances, sir?” asked my father. “No further than that he was killed by a sword-thrust which passed completely through his chest. Some suspect that he was lured to the spot by one pretence or other; others are of opinion that it was a duel. Robbery had certainly nothing to say to it, for his watch and purse were found on the body.” “Have they taken the body away?” “No, sir. It remains for the coroners inquest, which is to assemble immediately.” “Had Rutledge any political enemies? Is it supposed that the event was in any way connected with party?” “That could scarcely be,” said Fagan. “He was one who gave himself little concern about state affairs,--an easy fop that fluttered about the Court, caring for little above the pleasures of his valueless existence!” “For such men you have few sympathies, Fagan!” “None, sir, not one. Their history is ever the same,--a life of debauch, a death of violence!” “This is to speak hardly, Fagan,” said my father, mildly. “Men like poor Rutledge have their good qualities, though they be not such as you and I set store by. I never thought so myself, but others, indeed, deemed him a most amusing companion, and with more than an ordinary share of wit and pleasantry.” “The wit and pleasantry were both exerted to make his friends ridiculous, sir,” said Fagan, severely. “He was a man that lived upon a reputation for smartness, gained at the expense of every good feeling.” “I'll wager a trifle, Tony,” said my father, laughing, “that he died deep in your books. Come, be frank, and say how much this unhappy affair will cost you.” “Not so dearly as it may you, sir,” whispered Fagan in my father's ear; and the words nearly overcame him. “How so?--what do you mean?” muttered my father, in a broken, faltering voice.