They knew the meaning of those shots. One more murder to load the soul
of Ireland.
But Lord Harry lay dead in the middle of the road.
The second man got up and felt at his throat.
"Faith!" he said, "I thought I was murdered outright. Come, Mick, let
us drag him to the roadside."
They did so, and then with bent heads and slouched hats, they made
their way across country to another station where they would not be
recognised as the two who had followed Lord Harry down the road.
Two mounted men of the Constabulary rode along an hour later and found
the body lying where it had been left.
They searched the pockets. They found a purse with a few sovereigns;
the portrait of a lady---the murdered man's wife--a sealed envelope
addressed to Hugh Mountjoy, Esq, care of his London hotel; and a
card-case: nothing of any importance.
"It is Lord Harry Norland," said one. "The wild lord--he has met his
end at last."
The letter to Iris was brief. It said:
"Farewell! I am going to meet the death of one who is called a Traitor
to the Cause. I am the Traitor of a Cause far higher. May the end that
is already plotted for me be accepted as an atonement! Forgive me,
Iris! Think of me as kindly as you can.
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