“No. Right round that corner, though, lays the marteller tower we’re after. Up to yesterday my plan was jest to sail bang up to her an’ walk in. But somethin ’s happened to change my notions. They’ve sent a fellow--an American Irishman--to be what they call my ‘cojutor.’ I don’t jest know what it means; but, whatever it is, I don’t think much of it. He’s waitin’ over there for me to land. Well, now, I’m goin’ to land here instid, an’ take five of the men with me, an’ kind o’ santer down toward the tower from the land side, keepin’ behind the hedges. You’ll stay on board here, with Dominic at the helm under your orders, and only the jib and mizzen-top up, and jest mosey along into the cove toward the tower, keepin’ your men out o’ sight and watchin’ for me. If there’s a nigger in the fence, I’ll smoke him out that way.” Some further directions in detail followed, and then the bulk of the canvas was struck, and the vessel hove to. The small boat was drawn to the side, and the landing party descended to it. One of their own number took the oars, for it was intended to keep the boat in waiting on the beach. Their guns lay in the bottom, and they were conscious of a novel weight of ammunition in their pockets. They waved their hands in salution to the friends and neighbors they were leaving, and then, with a vigorous sweep of the oars, the boat went tossing on her course to the barren, rocky shore. The O’Mahony, curled up on the seat at the bow, scanned the wide prospect with a roving scrutiny. No sail was visible on the whole horizon. A drab, hazy stain over the distant sky-line told only that the track of the great Atlantic steamers lay outward many miles. On the land side--where rough, blackened boulders rose in ugly points from the lapping water, as outposts to serried ranks of lichened rocks which, in their turn, straggled backward in slanting ascent to the summit, masked by shaggy growths of furze--no token of human life was visible. [Illustration: 0143] A landing-place was found, and the boat securely drawm up on shore beyond highwater mark. Then The O’Mahony led the way, gun in hand, across the slippery reach of wet sea-weed, and thence, by winding courses, obliquely up the hillside. He climbed from crag to crag with the agility of a goat, but the practiced Muirisc men kept close at his heels. Arrived at the top, he paused in the shelter of the furze bushes to study the situation.