“I fear,” said Travers, “that in doing so I but follow the impression of all the world. It was not the least clever thing he has eyer done, his deception of you. Be assured, Mr. O'Donoghue, that the matter admits of no doubt. The warrant for his apprehension, the informations sworn against him, are not only plain and precise, but I have myself read certain facts of his intimacy with you, the places you have frequented, the objects for which, it is alleged, you were confederated--all these are at this moment in the hands of the Secretary of State. Forgive me, sir, if I tell you that you appear to have trusted too implicitly to men who were not guided by your own principles of honor. This very day a warrant for your own arrest will be issued from the Privy Council, on the information of a man whom, I believe, you never suspected. He is a horsedealer named Lawler--Lanty Lawler.” “And he has sworn informations against me?” “He has done more; he has produced letters written by your hand, and addressed to different leaders of the United Irish party, letters whose treasonable contents do not admit of a doubt. “And the scoundrel has my letters?” said Mark, as his face grew purple with passion. “He has them no longer,” said Travers. “Here they are, sir. They Were shown in confidence to my father, by one, who certainly is not your friend. Sir Marmaduke asked permission to let me see them, and I have taken on myself, without permission, to give them back to you.” “At whose suggestion,” said Mark, proudly, “comes this act of grace? Is it your father, who extends his protection to a tenant, or is it yourself, whose wish is to humble me by an obligation?” “There is none,” said Travers, frankly. “I believe, that scoundrels without heart or courage have laid a trap for a man who has both one and the other. I do not desire you should accept my conduct as a favour, still less as offering any bar to such a reckoning between us as two gentleman of equal place and standing may demand or expect from one another.” “Say you so, indeed!” cried Mark, as his eyes flashed with joy: “is that your meaning?” “There's my hand on it,” said Travers, “as friend or foe!” Mark grasped his hand, and wrung it with a convulsive pressure. “Then you are aware that you owe me such a reparation,” said he, in a voice tremulous with emotion. “You do not forget the day at Carrig-na-curra--beside the hearth--before my brother?” “I remember it well,” said Travers. “I ask your pardon for the insult. It was unworthy of me to have made the speech, nor have I been on good terms with myself since I uttered it.” Mark dropped his head, and uttered not a word. He could better have looked on Travers wounded and bleeding than have seen him thus elevated above himself by temper and manly candour. The vengeance he had yearned after so long was not only snatched from his grasp, but in the bitterness of disappointment its sting was turned against himself.