Various
Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II
THE REGATTA. – No. I
RUN ACROSS CHANNEL
Once more upon the dark blue water! It is noon, – the sun shines gloriously; the sea, undulated by a slight swell from the Atlantic, falls gently on the beach, or breaks upon the beetling precipice which forms the headland of Rathmore. The wind has almost "sighed itself to rest," and, coming across the sparkling surface of the ocean in partial eddies, ruffles it for a moment and passes on. Fainter and fainter still, – nothing but an occasional cat's-paw is visible, far as the helmsman's eye can range. The cutter has no longer steerage way; the folds of the ample mainsail flap heavily as the yacht rolls in the run of the tide, which, setting rapidly to the eastward, drifts the unmanageable vessel along a chain of rocky islands, severed by some tremendous convulsion from the main, to which they had been originally united.
A more magnificent and a more varied scene than that visible from the yacht's deck could not be imagined. A-beam lay the grey ruins of Dunluce, lighted up by a flood of sunshine; the shores of Portrush, with its scattered bathing-houses, and the highlands of Donegal at the extreme distance, appeared astern. On the left was an expanse of ocean, boundless, waveless, beautiful: the sea-gull was idly resting on the surface, the puffin and the cormorant diving and appearing continually; while a league off a man-of-war brig, covered to the very trucks with useless canvass, lay as if she rode at anchor. Beyond the motionless vessel, the Scottish coast was clearly defined; the bold outline of the shores of Isla presented itself: and, half lost in the haze, the cone of Jura showed yet more faintly. On the starboard bow the Giant's Causeway rose from the water, and with a glass you could trace its unequal surface of basaltic columns; while right ahead Bengore and Rathlin completed this mighty panorama.
Nor was the cutter from which this scene was viewed an object void of interest. She was a vessel of some seventy tons, displaying that beauty of build and equipment for which modern yachts are so remarkable. The low black hull was symmetry itself, while the taunt spars and topmast displayed a cloud of sail, which at a short distance would appear to require a bark of double the size to carry. Above deck everything was simple and ship-shape; below, space had been accurately considered, and not an inch was lost. Nothing could surpass the conveniency of the cabins, or the elegance with which the fittings and furniture were designed.
Four hours passed, – not a breath of wind stirred: a deader calm I never witnessed. We drifted past the Causeway, and, leaving the dangerous rock of Carrickbannon between us and the flying bridge of Carrick-a-rede, found ourselves at five o'clock rolling in the sound of Rathlin, with Churchbay and Ballycastle on either beam.
There is not in calm or storm a nastier piece of water than that which divides the island from the main. Its currents are most rapid; and, from the peculiar inequality of the bottom, in calms there is a heavy and sickening roll, and in storms a cross and dangerous sea. Without a leading wind, or plenty of it, a vessel finds it difficult to stem the current; and, in making the attempt with a light breeze, a man is regularly hung up until a change of tide enables him to slip through.
Judging from the outline of Rathlin, this island must have been originally disparted from the main; and the whole bottom of the sound evinces volcanic action. Nothing can be more broken and irregular than the under surface. At one cast the lead rests at ten, and at the next it reaches thirty fathoms. Beneath, all seems rifted rocks and endless caverns, and easily accounts for the short and bubbling sea that flows above. Everything considered, the loss of life occasioned by the passage of this sound is trifling. For weeks together all communication with the main land is frequently totally interrupted; and, until the weather moderates, the hardiest islander will not dare to venture out. But as the sea seldom gives up its dead, and the furious under-currents sweep them far from the place where they perished, many a stranger has here met his doom, and his fate remained a mystery for ever.
Still the calm continued, the tide was nearly done, and we had the comfortable alternative of anchoring in Churchbay or drifting back "to the place from whence we came." It would have vexed a saint, had there been one on board. Calculating on a speedy and certain passage, we had postponed our departure until the last hour. On Monday the regatta would commence; and we should have been in the Clyde the day before. A breeze for half an hour would have carried us clear of the tides, and liberated us from this infernal sound; and every man on board had whistled for it in vain. Dinner was announced, and, wearied with rolling and flapping, we briskly obeyed the summons. I paused with my foot within the companion: the master's eye was turned to the brig outside us; mine followed in the same direction.
"It's coming – phew!" and he gave a low and lengthened whistle, as if the tardy breeze required encouragement to bring it on. The light duck in the brig's royals fluttered for a moment, and then blew gently out; the top-gallant sails filled; presently the lower canvass told that the wind had reached it. The vessel has steerage way again; the breeze steals on, curling over the surface of the water, and in a few minutes we too shall have it.
On it came: the short and lumbering motion of the yacht ceased; she heeled gently over, and the table swung steadily as with increasing velocity the vessel displaced the water, and flung it in sparkling sheets from her bows. Next minute the master's voice gave comfortable assurance from the skylight – "The breeze was true, and before sunset there would be plenty of it."
Those who prefer the security of the king's highway to breasting "the pathless deep," build upon the certainty with which their journeyings shall terminate, and argue that there is safer dependence in trusting to post-horses than to the agency of "wanton winds." No doubt there is; the worst delay will arise from a lost shoe or a broken trace. The traveller has few contingencies to dread; he will reach the Bear for breakfast, and the Lion for dinner; and, if he be a borrower from the night, he will be surely at the Swan, his halting-place, ere the town-clock has ceased striking and the drum has beaten its reveille. To me that very regularity is not to be endured; the wheels grate over the same gravel that the thousand which preceded them have pressed before; the same hedge, the same paling meets the eye; there hangs the well-remembered sign; that waiter has been there these ten years, – ay, the same laughing barmaid, and obsequious boots, and bustling hostler, all with a smile of welcome, cold, mechanical, and insincere; not even the novelty of a new face among them, – all rooted to their places like the milestones themselves. Pish! one wearies of the road; it has no danger, no interest, no excitement. Give me the deep blue water; its very insecurity has charms for me. Is it calm? – mark yon cloud-bank in the south! There is wind there, for a thousand! It comes, but right ahead. No matter; my life for it, it will shift ere morning. Let it but change a point or two, and we shall lie our course. It comes – and fair at last, and, rushing forward with augmenting speed, the gallant vessel disparts the sparkling waters, and the keel cleaves the wave that keel never cleft before; and objects fade, and objects rise, while, "like a thing of life," the good ship hurries on. Cold must that spirit be which owns no elemental influence, nor feels buoyant as the bark that bears him onward to his destination!
As dinner ended, the altered motion of the yacht announced that we had rounded Ushet Point, and left the shelter of the island. We were now in the channel which separates Rathlin from the Scotch coast, and the cutter felt the rising swell as her sharp bows plunged in the wave, and flung it aside as if in scorn. The hissing noise with which the smooth and coppered sides slipped through the yielding waters marked our increased velocity. Yet we experienced little inconvenience; on the morocco-cushioned sofa even a Roman might have reclined in comfort. To every movement of the yacht the table gave an accommodating swing: fragile porcelain and frail decanter remained there in full security; and, though the wine-glass was filled to the brim, the rosewood surface on which it stood was unstained by a single drop. Human luxury cannot surpass that which a well-appointed yacht affords.
When we left the cabin for the deck, a new scene and a new sky were presented. Evening was closing in; the light blue clouds of morning were succeeded by a dark and lowering atmosphere; the wind was freshening, and it came in partial squalls, accompanied by drizzling rain. Rathlin, and the Irish highlands were fading fast away, while the tower on the Mull of Cantire flung its sparkling light over the dark waters, as if soliciting our approach. Two or three colliers we had passed, were steering for the Clyde close astern; while a Glasgow steamer, bound for Derry, came puffing by, and in a short time was lost in the increasing haze.
Is there on earth or sea an object of more interest or beauty than that lone building which relieves the benighted voyager from his uncertainty? In nothing has modern intelligence been more usefully displayed than in the superior lighting of the British seas. Harbour, and rock, and shoal, have each their distinguishing beacon; and, when he once sees the chalk cliffs of his native island, the returning mariner may count himself at home. Light after light rises from the murky horizon: there, flaring with the brilliancy of a fixed star; here, meteor-like, shooting out its stream of fire, and momentarily disappearing. On, nothing doubting, speeds the adventurous sailor, until the anchor falls from the bows, and the vessel "safely rides."
The light upon Cantire burns steadily, and in moderate weather it is visible at the distance of fifteen miles. It stands high, being upwards of two hundred and thirty feet above the level of the sea. We skirted the base of the cliff it occupies, and steered for the little island of Sanna. Momentarily the sea rose, the night grew worse, the dim and hazy twilight faded away, the wind piped louder, and the rain came down in torrents. When the weather looked threatening the cutter had been put under easy canvass, and now a further reduction was required. The mainsail was double-reefed, the third jib shifted for a smaller one, all above and below "made snug," and on we hurried.
The night was dark as a witch's cauldron when, rounding Sanna, we caught the Pladda lights, placed on opposite towers, and bearing from each other N. and S. It was easy to discover that we had got the shelter of the land, as the pitching motion of the yacht changed to a rushing velocity; but, though we found a smoother sea, the wind freshened, the rain fell with unabated violence, and the breeze, striking us in sudden gusts as it roared through the openings of the islands, half-flooded the deck with a boiling sea that broke over the bows, or forced itself through the lee-scuppers. Anxious to end our dreary navigation, "Carry on!" was the word, and light after light rose, and was lost successively. We passed the lights on Cumray; and, presently, that on Toward, in Dumbarton, minutely revolving, burst on the sight after its brief eclipse with dazzling brilliancy; while from the opposite shores of the Frith the beacons of Air and Trune were now and then distinctly visible. Our last meteor guide told that our midnight voyage was nearly ended, and the pier-light of Greenock enabled us to feel our way through a crowd of shipping abreast the town. "Stand by, for'ard! – let go!" The anchor fell, the chain went clattering through the hawse-hole; in a few seconds the cutter swung head to wind, and there we were, safe as in a wet dock!
We descended to the cabin, first discarding our outward coverings at the foot of the companion ladder. We came down like mermen, distilling from every limb, water of earth and sky in pretty equal proportions; but, glory to the Prophet and Macintosh! Flushing petticoats, pea-jackets, sou'westers, and India-rubber boots, proved garments of such excellent endurance, notwithstanding a three hours' pitiless pelting of spray and rain, that we shuffled off our slough, and showed in good and dry condition, as if we had the while been snug in the royal mail, or, drier yet, engaged at a meeting of the Temperance Society. And then came supper, – they can cook in yachts! – and we had run ninety miles since dinner; and that lobster salad, and those broiled bones, with the joyous prospect which bottles of varied tint upon yonder locker-head present, all would make – ay – a teetotaller himself forswear his vows for ever.
All is snug for the night. The men have shifted their wet clothes, and, as their supper is preparing, they crowd around the galley fire; and jest and "laugh suppressed" are audible. What a change these few brief minutes have effected! To the dreary darkness of a flooded deck, the luxury of this lighted and luxurious cabin has succeeded. The wind whistles through the shrouds, the rain falls spattering on the skylight, – what matter? —we heed them not; they merely recall the discomfort of the past, which gives a heightened zest to the pleasure of the passing hour. On rolled "the sandman" Time! the dial's finger silently pointing at his stealthy course, and warning us to separate.
Presently every sound below was hushed. All felt that repose which comfort succeeding hardship can best produce. In my own cabin I listened for a brief space to the growling of the storm; sleep laid his "leaden mace upon my lids;" I turned indolently in my cot, muttering with the honest Boatswain in the "Tempest,"
"Blow till thou burst thy wind, if room enough!"
and next moment was "fast as a watchman."
THE KEY OF GRANADA
"Many of the families of Ghar el Milah are descendants of the Spanish Moors; and, though none of them have retained any portion of the language of Spain, yet many still possess the keys of their houses in Granada and other towns." —Sir Grenville Temple's "Barbary States."
I
I keep the key, – though banish'd
From blest Granada long,
Our glorious race has vanish'd,
Or lives alone in song.
Though strangers in Alhambra
May, idly musing, gaze
On all the dying splendours
That round her ruins blaze;
Those towers had once a home for me,
And still I keep the sacred key!
II
Alas! my eyes may never
That lovely land behold,
Where many a gentle river
Flows over sands of gold.
The sparkling waves of Darro
For me may flow in vain;
No Moorish foot may wander
In lost, but cherish'd Spain!
Yet once her walls had room for me,
And still I keep the sacred key!
III
There often comes in slumber
A vision sad and clear,
When through Elvira's portals
Abdalla's hosts appear.
The keys of lost Granada
To other hands are given,
And all the power of ages
One fatal hour has riven!
No name, – no home remains for me, —
But still I keep the sacred key!
GLORVINA, THE MAID OF MEATH
(Concluded from Vol. I. page 619.)
The board was spread. He sat at it abstracted for a time. The dead silence of the place at last recalled him to himself. He was alone! He sprang from his seat, and darted breathlessly to the outward door! No one was in sight. Niall heaved a sigh that seemed to rend his breast, as he wished that the eyes which looked in vain were closed for ever. He returned to the table of repast; he took a small chain of hair from his neck; he laid it on the cover that was before him: he approached the door again. But the keepsake, that had never left its seat for many a year, was too precious to him to be so discarded. He returned: he lifted it, and, thrusting it into his bosom, pressed it again and again to his heart, then again and again to his lips, drinking his own tears, that fell fast and thick upon the loved and about-to-be-relinquished token; he looked at it as well as he could through his blinded eyes, convulsively sobbing forth the name of Glorvina. He made one effort, as it were a thing which called for all the power of resolution, to achieve that he desired to accomplish; and, violently casting the gift of Glorvina down again, he tore himself away!
Oh, the feet which retrace in disappointment the path which they trod in hope, how they move! Through how different a region do they bear us – and yet the same! Niall's limbs bore him from the retreat of Glorvina as if they acted in obedience to a spirit repugnant to his own. He cast his eyes this way and that way to divert his thoughts from the subject that engrossed them, and fix them upon the beauties of the landscape; but there was no landscape there. Mountain, wood, torrent, river, lake, were obliterated! Nothing was present but Glorvina. Rich she stood before him in the bursting bloom of young womanhood! Features, complexion, figure, voice – everything changed; and, oh, with what enhancing! Her eyes, in which, four years before, sprightliness, frankness, kindness, and unconsciousness used to shine, – what looked from them now? New spirits! things of the soul which time brings forth in season. Expression, – that face of the heart, – the thousand things that it told in the moment or two that Niall looked upon the face of Glorvina! A faintness came over the young man; his limbs seemed suddenly to fail him; he felt as if his respiration were about to stop; he stood still, he staggered, utter unconsciousness succeeded.
Niall opened his eyes. Slowly recollection returned. He was aware that he had fainted, but certainly not in the place where he was reclining, – a bank a few paces from the road. The repulse he had met with from Glorvina returned to his recollection in full force. He sighed, and thrust his hand into his bosom to press it to his overcharged heart. His hand felt something there it did not expect to meet! It drew forth the token of Glorvina! Niall could scarce believe his vision. He looked again and again at the precious gift; he pressed it to his lips; he thrust it into his breast; snatched it thence to his lips again, and looked at it again; divided between incredulity and certainty, past agony and present rapture. He looked about him; no one was in sight. "How came it here?" exclaimed he to himself. "Glorvina! Glorvina!" he continued, in tender accents, "was it thy hand that placed it here? Hast thou been near me when I knew it not? Didst thou follow me in pity, – perhaps, O transporting thought! in kindness, – guessing from the untasted repast and the abandoned pledge that Niall had departed in despair? If so, then art thou still my own Glorvina! then shalt thou yet become the wife of Niall!"
"The wife of Niall!" repeated the echo, and echo after echo took it up.
Niall listened till the last reverberation died away.
"The wife of Niall!" he reiterated, in a yet louder voice, in the tone of which exultation and joy were mingled.
"The wife of Niall!" cried the voice of the unseen lips.
"Once more, kind spirit!" exclaimed Niall; "once more!"
"Once more!" returned the echo.
"The wife of Niall!" ejaculated the youth, exerting his voice to its utmost capacity; but he heard not the voice of the echo. The arms of Glorvina were clasped about his neck, and her bright face was laid upon his cheek!
"Companion of my childhood! – friend! – brother!" she exclaimed; and would have gone on, but checked herself, looked in his eyes for a moment, her forehead and her cheeks one blush, and buried her face in his breast.
"Glorvina! Glorvina!" was all that Niall could utter in the intervals of the kisses which he printed thick upon her shining hair. "Glorvina! Glorvina!"
"Come!" said Glorvina, with a voice of music such as harp never yet awakened; "come!" and straight led the way to her retreat.
Slow was their gait as they walked side by side, touching each other. They spake not many words for a time. With the youth all language seemed to be concentred in the name of Glorvina; in the name of Niall with the maid. Suddenly Niall paused.
"How many a time," exclaimed Niall, "when I have been miles and miles away, have I thought of the days when we used to walk thus! only my arm used then to be around your waist, while yours was laid upon my shoulder. Are we not the same Niall and Glorvina we were then?" The maid paused in her turn. She hesitated, but the next second her arm was on the shoulder of Niall; Niall's arm was again the girdle of Glorvina's waist. Language began to flow. Glorvina related minutely, as maiden modesty would permit her, the cause of her secluded retirement and reported death. As she spake, Niall drew her closer to him, and she shrank not; he leaned his cheek to hers, and she drew not away; he drank her breath as it issued in thrilling melody from her lips, and she breathed it yet more freely; she ceased, and those lips were in contact with his own, and not compulsively. Simultaneously Niall and Glorvina paused once more; they gazed – they cast a glance of thankfulness to heaven – gazed again – and, speechless and motionless, stood locked in one another's arms.
"Glorvina!" cried a voice.
The maid started and turned. Malachi stood before his daughter, the bard behind him.
"Niall!" said Malachi. The youth was at the feet of the king. In a moment the maid was there also. Malachi stood with folded arms, looking thoughtfully and somewhat sternly down upon the prostrate pair. No one broke silence for a time.
The bard was the first to speak.
"Malachi," said the bard, "what is so strong as destiny? Whose speed is so swift? Whose foot is so sure? Who can outrace it, or elude it? Thy stratagem is found out. The Dane asks for thy fair child, although thou told'st him she was in the custody of the tomb. If thou showest her not to him, he will search for her. Niall has come in time. The voice of the prophetic Psalter has called him hither; he has come to espouse thy fair child; a bride thou must present her to the Dane. In the feast must begin the fray; by the fray will the peace be begotten that shall give safety and repose to the land. Malachi, reach forth thy hands! Lift thy children from the earth, and take them to thy bosom; and bow thy head in reverence to Fate!"
The aged king obeyed. He raised Glorvina and Niall from the earth; he placed his daughter's hand in that of the youth: he extended his arms; they threw themselves into them.
Bright shone the hall of Malachi at the bridal feast in honour of the nuptials of Niall and Glorvina; rapturously it rang with the harp and with the voice of many a minstrel; but the string of the bard was silent; his thoughts were not at the board; his absent looks rebuked the hour of mirth and gratulation; watchfulness was in them, and anxiety, and alarm. Still the mirth halted not, nor slackened. The king was joyous; on the countenances of Niall and Glorvina sat the smile of supreme content; the spirits of the guests were quickening fast with hilarity; and dancing eyes saluted every new visitor as he entered, – for the gates of the castle were thrown open to all. Suddenly the eyes of the whole assembly were turned upon the bard. He had started from his seat, and stood in the attitude of one who listens.
"Hark!" he cried. He was obeyed. The uproar of the banquet subsided into breathless attention; yet nothing was heard, though the bard stood listening still. The feast was slowly renewed.
"Cormack," said Malachi, in a tone of mingled good-nature and sarcasm, "what did you call upon us to listen to?"
"The sound of steps that come!" replied the bard with solemnity, and slowly resuming his seat.
"It is the steps of thy fingers along the strings then!" rejoined the king. "Come! – strike! A joyful strain!"
"No joyful strain I strike," said the bard, "till the land shall be free from him whose footsteps now are turned towards thy threshold, and shall cross it ere the feast is half gone by."
"No joyful strain thou'lt strike till then!" said the king. "Come, take thy harp, old man, and show thy skill; and play not the prophet when it befits thee to be the reveller!"
The bard responded not by word, action, or look, to the command or request of Malachi. He sat, all expectation, on the watch for something that his ear was waiting for.
"Nay, then," said the king, "an thou wilt not play the bard, whose office 'tis, thy master will do it for thee!" and Malachi pushed back his seat, and reached to the harp, which stood neglected beside the bard: he drew it towards him; his breast supported it; he extended his arms, and spread his fingers over the strings. "Now!" said Malachi.
"Now!" said the bard, starting up again, as the harsh blast of a trumpet arrested the hand of the king on the point of beginning the strain. Malachi started up too. All were upon their feet; and every eye was fixed upon the portal of the hall, beneath which stood Turgesius with a group of attendants.
"He is come!" said the bard. "The feast is not crowned without the fray! He is come!" he repeated, as Malachi strode from his place, and with extended hand approached the visitor, who smilingly bowed to his welcome, and followed him to the head of the board, round which he cast his eyes till they alighted upon Glorvina. Malachi pointed to the seat beside himself, as Niall half gave place.
"No! – there!" said Turgesius, pointing to the side of Glorvina. He approached the place where she sat with a cheek now as white as her nuptial vest; the person next her mechanically resigned his seat, and the rover took it.
"The cup!" cried Turgesius. It was handed to him. With kindling eyes he lifted it, holding it for a second or two at full length; then, turning his gaze upon the bride, he gave "The health of Glorvina!"
"Glorvina! – Glorvina and Niall!" rang around the board. The Dane started to his feet, snatching the cup from his lips, that were about to touch it; and lifting it commandingly on high, "Glorvina!" he repeated, casting a glance of haughty defiance round him; and, taking a deep draught, with another glance at the company, sat down, riveting his eyes upon the bride.
The cloud of wrath overcast the bright face of Niall as he watched the licentious Dane. Frequently did he start, as upon the point of giving way to some rash impulse, and then immediately check himself. Now and then he looked towards the king, and turned away in disappointment to see that Malachi thought of nothing but the feast, and noted not the daring gaze which the rover kept bending on his child. He looked round the board, and saw with satisfaction that he was not the only one in whom festivity had given place to indignation; and, with the smile of fixed resolve, he interchanged glances with eyes lighted up with spirits like his own.
Turgesius plied the cup; and, as he drained it, waxed more and more audacious. Regardless of the sufferings of the fair maid who sat lost in confusion, he praised aloud the charms of Glorvina, and gave utterance to the unholy passion with which they had inspired him. Nor had he arrived at the limits of his presumption yet. He caught her delicate hand, and held it in spite of her gentle, remonstrating resistance. He dared to raise it to his lips, and hold it there, covering it with kisses, till, the dread of consequences lost in the dismay of outraged modesty, the royal maid by a sudden effort wrested it from him, at the same time springing upon her feet with the design of flying from the board; but the bold stranger, anticipating her, was up as soon as she, and, grasping her by the rich swell of her white arms, constrained her from departing.
"No!" cried Turgesius, bending his insolent gaze upon the now burning face and neck of Glorvina. "No! enchanting one! Thus may not the Dane be served by the woman that inflames his soul with love," and at the same moment attempted to throw his arms around her.
"Desist, robber!" thundered forth the voice of Niall, and, at the same moment, a goblet directed by his unerring aim stretched the Dane upon the floor. Outcry at once took place of revelry. The attendants of Turgesius, baring their weapons, rushed in the direction of Niall, but stopped short at the sight of treble the number of their glaives waving around him. They looked not for such hinderance. Since the Dane had got the upper hand, the Irish youth had been forbidden the practice or wearing of arms. They stopped, and stood irresolute. The voice of the king restored order.
Malachi had hitherto sat strangely passive. He noted not the distress of Glorvina, the audacity of the Dane, or the gathering wrath of Niall; but the act of violence which had just taken place aroused him from his abstraction. He rose; and, extending his hand, commanded in a voice of impressive authority that the sword should be sheathed, and the seats resumed. Then calling to his attendants, he pointed to his prostrate guest, and signed to them to raise him, assisting them himself, and giving directions that he should be conveyed to his own chamber, and laid upon his own couch. This being performed, he motioned to Glorvina to withdraw from the hall, which she precipitately did, followed by her bridemaidens and other female friends, and casting an anxious, commiserating look upon Niall, whose wonder at the meaning of such a farewell was raised to astonishment, when, turning towards the king, he encountered the stern, repelling, and indignant gaze of Malachi.
"Niall!" said the king, in a voice of suppressed rage, "depart our castle! Depart our realms! Withdraw from all alliance with our house! Our honour has been stained by thee to-night in thy unparalleled violation of the rights of hospitality. This roof never witnessed before now, the person of a guest profaned by a blow from its master, or from its master's friend. Consummation awaits not the rites that have been performed to-day. The obligation of those rites shall be dissolved! We mingle blood no further! Thou art henceforward an alien – an outlaw; and at the peril of thy life thou crossest, after this, our threshold, or the confines of our rule!" So saying, Malachi resumed his seat, and sat pointing in the direction of the door. Niall stood for a moment or two without attempting to move. His countenance, his limbs, his tongue seemed frozen by dismay and despair. At length he clasped his hands, and lifting them along with his eyes, to heaven, turned slowly from the king, and strode from the bridal feast.