"Have with you? Aye, with all my heart!" returned the Viceroy, with a flash in his eyes. "The O’Brien! ungrateful traitor! was it for this the King knighted him in Dublin Cathedral? Howbeit, you and I shall soon bring him to book, and without tumult, I would fain hope." "Your Pandora hath her coffer a good size," answered Ormonde, with the same grim smile. "You think my hopes be over-great, trow?" "A dram or so bigger than mine." "I will never fight mine own kin, if I may away therewith," said Roger, cheerfully. "Let me but parley with the Irishry myself, and you shall behold somewhat come thereof." "Truly, of that doubt I nothing," said Ormonde in the same tone. "But whether that which comes thereof shall be to your gracious Lordship’s ease—well, I was not bred up for a prophet." "Whither march we?" "Down the Boyne and up the Blackwater. The sept are gathered at Kenles."[#] [#] Now called Kells. "How much is your following?" "All the Botelers, and a good parcel more of the English pale. We are well enough for that." "I will march to meet them with the dawn," said the Viceroy. "Madison, order all things in good readiness for early morrow. Maybe I shall find my work there." It was said in a cheerful, almost exultant voice; and Roger quitted the hall, leaving Lawrence very, very sad. "Maybe he shall find his death there!" he said in a low mournful voice to Mr. Robesart. "Be it so, my son," answered the priest, though his own tones were not without sorrow. "Let him only find God’s work; and then he shall find also God’s hire unto His servants. He gives not grudgingly, Lawrence Madison." The armies met at Kenles, on the 20th of July 1398. When they were yet at a short distance, the Earl of March suddenly sprang from his horse, and bade Lawrence dismount also. "Quick, and aid me!" said he, in his usual impulsive manner. "I will don the Irish habit, and meet them thus arrayed. They will list me if I come to them in their own habit, and speaking their own tongue. Is not the blood of their ancient kings mine own? Lolly"—the old childish epithet came back to his lips in this moment of haste and excitement—"wherefore standest gazing thus moonstruck? Make haste and help me." "My Lord, I am sore afeared lest they hurt you." "They hurt me! Am I not one of them by blood? Have I not learned to be one of them in language? Let me but don their habit, and I am of them in all things. Quick! Cast thy fears and fantasies to the winds! This is no time for them." While Roger spoke, he was hastily throwing aside his English dress, and arraying himself in the Irish national costume—the tunic and braccæ which dated from Roman days, the loose hood, the plaid, the bare foot in the stirrup, and the spear in the hand. Thus accoutred, and commanding his men to stand still until after the parley, he dashed up the slope to meet the Irish leaders.