Isidora placed the keepsake on my finger, and with my lips I pressed her trembling hand. Her father gave a signal--and she hastily left the room by one door, as the blue-coated attendant entered by another to say that “my horse was waiting.” “I will attend you to the gate,” said my host; and we proceeded down the long corridor together. At the entrance I found my mare, full of life and fit for any thing. Blue-coat housed my pistols in the holsters, Mr. Hartley squeezed my hand, and I sprang into the saddle, muttering thanks, which mine host returned with something like a blessing. He turned towards the door--I rode round the angle of the court-yard. Casting my eyes back I took a last look at the house, and from an upper window a white arm waved its parting farewell. Who sent that mute addio?--who--but Isidora! CHAPTER VII. I JOIN THE TWENTY-FIRST. “_Davy_.--Doth the man of war stay all night? “_Shallow_,--Yes, Davy--I will use him well.” Shakspeare. As I rode from Mr. Hartley’s, I could scarcely persuade myself that the transactions of the last two days were aught but a coinage of the brain, and took the liberty of respectfully inquiring of myself whether I were actually _compos mentis_. As I looked around, I received on this point a mute affirmative. I was sitting in mine own saddle--bestrode the best mare that ever cleared a broken bridge--identified the holsters at my pommel--my cloak-bag was duly secured upon its pad--and, stronger proof, “a gay gold ring” glittered on my finger. It was a sweet September evening, and for the first mile or two the scenery harmonized well with that hour “which poets love.” But when the natural wood that encircled Mr. Hartley’s domain was left behind, I found before me a large expanse of dull brown moorland, which must be traversed before I could reach the solitary house where I purposed to take up my quarters for the night. The inn was ten miles distant, and the gentle reader will please to hold in recollection, that these miles were Irish miles; therefore, had I been inclined to sentimentalize, there was neither time nor place for musing. I gave Miss Malone accordingly permission to step out; and as the sun made his parting bow from behind a mountain ridge, I pulled up at the Yellow Lion and received an honourable welcome.