“Ye may well say it,” replied he, bitterly.--“Ye had time enough to forget me since we met last; and 'tis thinking twice your grand friends the officers would be, before they 'd put their necks where mine is now to see you. Read that,”--as he spoke, he threw a ragged and torn piece of printed paper on the table,--“read that, and you 'll see there 's five hundred pounds of blood money to the man that takes me. Ay, and here I stand this minit in the King's barrack, and walked fifty-four miles this blessed day just to see you and speak to you once more. Well, well!” He turned away his head while he said this, and wiping a starting tear from his red eyeball, he added, “Master Tom, 'tis myself would never b'lieve ye done it.” “Did what?” said I, eagerly. “What have I ever done that you should charge me thus?” But Darby heard me not; his eyes were fixed on vacancy, and his lips moved rapidly as though he were speaking to himself. “Ay,” said he, half aloud, “true enough; 'tis the gentlemen that betrayed us always,--never came good of the cause where they took a part. But you,”--here he turned full round, and grasping my arm, spoke directly to me, “you that I loved better than my own kith and kin, that I thought would one day be a pride and glory to us all; you that I brought over myself to the cause--” “And when have I deserted,--when have I betrayed it?” “When did you desert it?” repeated he, in a tone of mocking irony. “Tell me the day and hour ye came here, tell me the first time ye sat down among the red butchers of King George, and I 'll answer ye that. Is it here you ought to be? Is this the home for him that has a heart for Ireland? I never said you betrayed us. Others said it; but I stood to it, ye never did that. But what does it signify? 'Tis no wonder ye left us; we were poor and humble people; we had nothing at heart but the good cause--” “Stop!” cried I, maddened by this taunt. “What could I have done? where was my place?” “Don't ask me; if your own heart doesn't teach thee, how can I? But it's over now; the day is gone, and I must take to the road again. My heart is lighter since I seen you; and it will be lighter again when I give you this wamin',--God knows if you 'll mind it. You think yourself safe now since you joined the sodgers; you think they trust you, and that Barton's eye is n't on ye still. There is n't a word you say is n't noted down,--not a man you spake to isn't watched. You don't know it; but I know it. There 's more go to the gallows in Ireland over their wine, than with the pike in their hands. Take care of your friends, I say.” “You wrong them. Darby; and you wrong me. Never have I heard from one here a single word that could offend the proudest heart among us.”