The Bondman: A New Saga. Hall Sir Caine

turned to go.

      But he laid hold of her arm.

      "Why not?" he asked.

      "Only think of my brothers. Your very life would be in danger."

      "If all six of them were ranged across the other end of this bridge, and you had to walk the rest of the road alone, I would go through them," he said.

      She saw the high lift of his neck and she smiled proudly. Then they walked on some distance. He was gazing at her in silence. There was a conscious delight of her beauty in the swing of her step and the untamed glance of her eyes.

      "Since the country is so fine I suppose you'll stay a long while there?" she said in her sweetest tone.

      "No longer than I must," he answered.

      "Why not?"

      "I don't know."

      "But why not?" she said again, looking at him sideways with a gleam of a smile.

      He did not answer, and she laughed merrily.

      "What a girl you are for laughing," he said. "It may be very laughable to you that I'm going away – "

      "But isn't it to you? Eh?" she said, as fast as a flash of quicksilver.

      He had no answer, so he tried to laugh also, and to take her hand at the same time. She was too quick for him, and swung half a pace aside. They were then at the gate of Lague, where long years before Stephen Orry first saw the light through the elms. A late rook was still cawing overhead; the heifers had gone on towards the courtyard.

      "You must go now, so good-bye," she said, softly.

      "Greeba," he said.

      "Well? Only speak lower," she whispered, coming closer. He could feel the warm glow of her body.

      "Do you think, now, if I should be a long time away – years it may be, perhaps many years – we should ever forget each other, we two?"

      "Forget? No, not to say forget, you know," she answered.

      "But should we remember?"

      "Remember? You silly, silly boy, if we should not forget how ever could we fail to remember?"

      "Don't laugh at me, Greeba; and promise me one thing," and then he whispered in her ear.

      She sprang away and laughed once more, and started to run down the path. But in three strides he had her again.

      "That will not do for me, Greeba," he said breathing fast. "Promise me that you will wait for me."

      "Well," she said softly, her dark eyes full of merriment, "I'll promise that while you are away no one else shall spoil me. There! Good-bye!"

      She was tearing herself out of his hands.

      "First give me a token," he said.

      Daffodils lined the path, though in the dusk he could not see them. But she knew they were there, and stopped and plucked two, blew upon both, gave one to him, and put the other into the folds at her bosom.

      "Good-bye! Good-bye!" she said in an under-breath.

      "Good-bye!" he answered.

      She ran a few steps, but he could not let her go yet, and in an instant he sprang abreast of her. He threw one arm about her waist and the other about her neck, tipped up her chin, and kissed her on the lips. A gurgling laugh came up to him.

      "Remember!" he whispered over the upturned face in the white kerchief.

      At the next instant he was gone. Then, standing under the dark elms alone, she heard the porch door opening, a heavy foot treading on the gravel, and a deep voice saying: "Here are the heifers home, but where's the little lass?"

      It was her eldest brother, Asher, and she walked up to him and said quite calmly: —

      "Oh! what a bad hasp that gate has – it takes such a time to open and close."

      Michael Sunlocks reached the harbor at the time appointed. As he crossed the quay some fishermen were lounging there with pipes between their teeth. A few of them came up to him to bid him Godspeed in their queer way.

      Stephen Orry was standing apart by the head of the harbor steps, and at the bottom of them his boat, a yawl, was lying moored. They got into it and Stephen sculled out of the harbor. It was still very thick over the town, but they could see the lights of the Irish brig in the bay. Outside the pier the air was fresher, and there was something of a swell on the water.

      "The fog is lifting," said Stephen Orry. "There'll be a taste of a breeze before long."

      He seemed as if he had something to say but did not know how to begin. His eye caught the light on Point of Ayre.

      "When are they to build the lighthouse?" he asked.

      "After the spring tides," said Michael.

      They were about midway between the pier and the brig when Stephen rested his scull under his arm and drew something from one of his pockets.

      "This is the money," he said, and he held out a bag towards Michael Sunlocks.

      "No," said Michael, and he drew quickly back.

      There was a moment's silence, and then Michael added, more softly: —

      "I mean, father, that I have enough already. Mr. Fairbrother gave me some. It was fifty pounds."

      Stephen Orry turned his head aside and looked over the dark water. Then he said: —

      "I suppose that was so that you wouldn't need to touch money same as mine."

      Michael's heart smote him. "Father," he said, "how much is it?"

      "A matter of two hundred pounds," said Stephen.

      "How long has it taken you to earn – to get it?"

      "Fourteen years."

      "And have you been saving it up for me?"

      "Ay."

      "To take me to Iceland?"

      "Ay."

      "How much more have you?"

      "Not a great deal."

      "But how much?"

      "I don't know – scarcely."

      "Have you any more?"

      Stephen made no answer.

      "Have you any more, father?"

      "No."

      Michael Sunlocks felt his face flush deep in the darkness.

      "Father," he said, and his voice broke, "we are parting, you and I, and we may not meet again soon; indeed, we may never meet again. I have made you a solemn promise. Will you not make me one?"

      "What is it, sir?"

      "That you will never, never try to get more by the same means."

      "There'll be no occasion now."

      "But will you promise me?"

      "Ay."

      "Then give me the money."

      Stephen handed the bag to Michael.

      "It's fourteen years of your life, is it not?"

      "So to say."

      "And now it's mine, isn't it, to do as I like with it?"

      "No, sir, but to do as you ought with it."

      "Then I ought to give it back to you. Come, take it. But wait! Remember your promise, father. Don't forget – I've bought every hour of your life that's left."

      Father and son parted at the ship's side in silence, with throats too full for speech. Many small boats, pulled by men and boys, were lying about the ladder, and there was a good deal of shouting and swearing and noisy laughter there. Some of the boatmen recognized Michael Sunlocks and bellowed their farewells to him. "Dy banne Jee oo?"

      "God bless you! God bless you!" they said, and then among themselves they seemed to discuss the reason of his going. "Well, what's it saying?" said one; "the crab that lies always in its hole is never