“Not at all,” rejoined Daly; “the provocation came from yourself,--at least, you used a phrase which men with blood in their veins understand but one way. My error--and I 'll not forgive myself in haste for it--was the belief that an upstart need not of necessity be a poltroon.--Drive on,” cried he to the coachman, with a sneering laugh; “your master is looking pale.” And, with these words, he turned his horse's head, and cantered slowly back towards the abbey. CHAPTER XXXIII. TATE SULLIVAN'S FAREWELL The sorrows and sufferings of noble minds are melancholy themes to dwell upon; they may “point a moral,” but they scarcely “adorn a tale,” least of all such a tale as ours is intended to be. While, therefore, we would spare our readers and ourselves the pain of this narration, we cannot leave that old abbey, which we remember so full of happiness, without one parting look at it, in company with those about to quit it forever. From the time of Mr. O'Reilly's leave-taking, the day, notwithstanding its gloomy presage, went over rapidly. The Knight busied himself with internal arrangements, while Lionel took into his charge all the preparations for their departure on the morrow, Bagenal Daly assisting each in turn, and displaying an amount of calm foresight and circumspection in details which few would have given him credit for. Meanwhile, Lady Eleanor slept long and heavily, and awoke, not only refreshed in body, but with an appearance of quiet energy and determination she had not shown for years past. Great indeed was the Knight's astonishment on hearing that she intended joining them at dinner; in her usual habit she dined early, and with Helen alone for her companion, so that her present resolve created the more surprise. Dinner was ordered in the library, and poor old Tate, by some strange motive of sympathy, took a more than common pains in all the decorations of the table. The flowers which Lady Eleanor was fondest of decked the centre--alas, there was no need to husband them now! on the morrow who was to care for them?--a little bouquet of fresh violets marked her place at the table, and more than a dozen times did the old man hesitate how the light should fall through the large window, and whether it would be more soothing to his mistress to look abroad upon that fair and swelling landscape so dear to her, or more painful to gaze upon the scenes she should never see more. “If it was myself,” muttered old Tate, “I'd like to be looking at it as long as I could, and make it follow me in my dhrames after; but sure there 's no knowing how great people feels! they say they never has the same kind of thought as us!”