"And who speaks the word that shall betray me? A king,--a fugitive! Yet, not all the means that treachery can compass shall trammel one hair upon this brow without my privity or consent." "Comest thou like the sharp wind into my dwelling?" inquired Holt, in a voice tremulous with amazement. "Free as the unconfined air; yet fettered by a lighter bond,--a woman's love!" returned the intruder. "Thou hast a daughter." The Lord of Grislehurst grew pale at these words. Some terrific meaning clung to them. After a short pause the stranger continued:-- "Thus speak the legends of Tigernach, and the bards of Ulster, rapt into visions of the future:--'_When a king of Erin shall flee at the voice of a woman, then shall the distaff and spindle conquer whom the sword and buckler shall not subdue_.' That woman is yon heretic queen. A usurper, an intruder on our birthright. Never were the O'Neales conquered but by woman! I have lingered here when the war-cry hath rung from the shores of my country. Again the shout hath come, and the impatient chiefs wait for my return. But"---- The warrior seemed to writhe during the conflict. His hands were clenched, and every muscle stiffened with agony. Scorn at his own weakness, and dread, horrible undefinable dread, as he felt the omnipotent power mastering his proud spirit. The man who would have laughed at the shaking of a spear, and the loud rush of the battle, quailed before a woman's hate and a woman's love. "And what is thy request to-night?" said Holt. The stranger answered in a voice of thunder-- "Thy daughter!" Tyrone, for it was he, seemed nigh choking with the emotion he sought to suppress. "Nay," he continued, "it must not be. Oh! did I love her less, she had been mine!" "Thine?" suddenly retorted her father, somewhat scornfully. "And who gave thee this power over woman's spirit? Thou hast not even had speech of her, much less the means to win her favour." An almost supernatural expression seemed to gather on the features of the chieftain. His eye, rolling through the vista of past years, began to pause, appalled as it approached the dark threshold of the future. He appeared lost to the presence of surrounding objects, as he thus exclaimed with a terrific solemnity-- "When the dark-browed Norah nursed me on her lap, and her eye, though dark to outward sense, saw through the dim veil of destiny, it was thus she sung as she guarded my slumbers, and the hated Sassenach was in the hall:-- "'Rest thee, baby! light and darkness Mingling o'er thy path shall play; Hope shall flee when thou pursuest, Lost amid life's trackless way. "'Rest thee, baby! woman's breast Thou shalt darken o'er with woe; None thou lookest on or lovest, Joy or hope hereafter know. Many a maid thy glance shall rue, Where it smites it shall subdue.' "It was an evil hour, old man, when I looked upon thy daughter."