or windows at all. This large door will merely be fastened by a latch to-night, and all the windows except those of the occupied bedrooms will remain unshuttered. If we attempted to betray fear in Tipperary we would only hurry on what we dreaded.”
“And you are thus exposed to the mercy of any burglar or assassin who may choose to walk into the house?”
“It has always been our custom to act so, and no one has ever attempted to enter the house at night. We are murdered here in the broad light of day, Captain Stapleton. We have nothing to fear from night attacks in our own homes.”
“Pleasant quarters,” thought I, as I passed on to my room, glad that I was to be permitted to have shutters at least to the windows there, and I am not ashamed to say that I locked my door too. I could not divest myself of a certain uneasy feeling regarding the probability of having my throat cut before morning if I neglected to take measures for my safety. The idea of sleeping in a house whose doors and windows were left in such a state as to invite the easy ingress of robbers or other lawless ruffians, struck me as being singular in the extreme. I daresay I was as brave as most men, but I had no particular fancy for being murdered in my sleep.
“And so here I am, under the roof of an unpopular Tipperary landlord,” cogitated I as I opened my window and looked out, “in the heart of a lawless district, and obliged to seek repose with as much chance of security as if I were in a forest surrounded by wild beasts.”
Very peaceful was the prospect without. The moon was shining clearly on the park and distant woods, its pale light glancing on the narrow belt of the Suir that wound in and out through the trees. For a long time I stood looking on the silent scene before me, then I softly closed the window and hurried to bed, to dream of the fair enchantress of this Tipperary home.
CHAPTER IV. THE MOUNTAIN CAVES.
Next morning, as previously arranged, Sir Denis and his male guests were up at cockcrow to enjoy some capital trout-fishing. Our party consisted of the host, Sir Percy Stedmole, a certain Tom Nugent of a place called Ballindrummery, a somewhat antiquated bachelor who told wonderful stories on all subjects, and the two dragoons from Cahir, Captain St. John and Mr. Morley. We all enjoyed ourselves very much and returned home to breakfast as hungry as hawks. How charming Miss Barnett looked presiding over the breakfast table—how exquisite the repast with its fresh country delicacies, its adornments of fragant flowers, its cheerfulness adding to the vigour of our appetites.
“Have you settled on any sight-seeing for the afternoon, Denis?” asked Miss Barnett, as we were all seated at table.
“I was thinking of the Galtee Mountain Caves,” replied our host. “The ride would be a long one, but well repaid by the scenery on the way and the Caves are really wonderful. What do you say, Captain Stapleton? As the greatest stranger in these parts your vote will decide us.”
“I am all in favour of the Caves, provided Miss Barnett has no objection to the plan,” replied I.
“Will your horse be able for such a distance?” asked Sir Percy, bending his head towards Miss Barnett who sat next to him.
“Oh, yes, perfectly; its foot is quite well now, and a little exercise will be of use.”
“But such a number of miles,” remonstrated Sir Percy.
“Never fear,” said the lady positively. “Ryan says it is able for anything now.”
“We had better start early, Louisa,” observed Sir Denis. “We cannot afford to loiter over our preparations. Are we all agreed about the excursion to the Caves?”
St. John and Morley answered in the affirmative for themselves, and Nugent and Sir Percy had to give in also, though neither of them seemed to care for so long a ride. Most of us had our own horses, but even if we had not our host would have been able to provide us all with efficient steeds, for his stables were well supplied with some of the finest animals I ever saw. Orders having been given for the horses to be put in readiness, we lost no time after breakfast in setting forth on our long ride, and I ardently hoped that it might be my good fortune to get beside Miss Barnett on the way, but to my chagrin and disappointment I saw at once that Sir Percy Stedmole was determined to secure that happiness for himself. He rode immediately to her side, like a privileged individual, and going in advance of the party, both were soon out of hearing as regarded their conversation. I grew sulky on the spot, and lagging behind kept with Tom Nugent, while Sir Denis rode with the dragoons.
“Sir Percy Stedmole seems very intimate at Knockgriffin,” said I to Nugent.
“Oh, ay, you know he’s a distant relative of the Barnetts; one of them married a generation or two ago into an English family named Stedmole, and he’s a grandson or something of the kind.”
