“Ay!” muttered the old doctor. “Then I suppose there 's no help for it! Here, Bob, put these papers in the fire.” So saying, he drew a thick roil of documents from beneath his pillow, and placed it in his son's hands. “Put them in the blaze, and let me see them burned.” O'Reilly did as he was told, stirring the red embers till the whole mass was consumed. “I am glad of that, with all my heart,” said he, as the flame died out. “That was a part of the matter I never felt easy about.” “Didn't you?” grunted the old man, with a leer of malice. “What was it you burned, d'ye think?” “The bills,--the bonds with young Darcy's signature,” replied O'Reilly, almost terrified by an unknown suspicion. “Not a bit of it, Bob. The blaze you made was a costly fire to you, as you 'll know one day. That was my will.” CHAPTER XXVI. THE LANDING AT ABOUKIR We must now ask our reader to leave for a season this scene of plot and intrigue, and turn with us to a very different picture. The same morning which on the iron-bound coast of Ireland broke in storm and hurricane, dawned fair and joyous over the shady shores of Egypt, and scarcely ruffled the long rolling waves as they swept into the deep bay of Aboukir. Here now a fleet of one hundred and seventy ships lay at anchor, the expedition sent forth by England to arrest the devouring ambition of Buonaparte, and rescue the land of the Pyramids from bondage. While our concern here is less with the great event than with the fortune of one of its humble followers, we would fain linger a little over the memory of this glorious achievement of our country's arms. For above a week after the arrival of the fleet, the gale continued to blow with unabated fury; a sea mountains high rolled into the bay, accompanied by sudden squalls of such violence that the largest ships of the fleet could barely hold on by their moorings, while many smaller ones were compelled to slip their cables, and stand out to sea. If the damage and injury were not important enough to risk the success of the expedition, the casualties ever inseparable from such events threw a gloom over the whole force, a feeling grievously increased by the first tidings that met them,--the capture of one of the officers and a boat's crew, who were taken while examining the shore, and seeking out the fittest spot for a landing. On the 7th of March the wind and sea subsided, the sky cleared, and a glorious sunset gave promise of a calm, so soon to be converted into a storm not less terrible than that of the elements.