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Then I'll grow like myself.... I think I'm afraid I loved you.... It could only be hell for you. Go now, before it's too late!... If you stay till I'm well I'll never let you go!" "Kells, I believe it would be cowardly for me to leave you here alone," she replied, earnestly. "You can't help yourself. You'd die." "All the better. But I won't die. I'm hard to kill. Go, I tell you."
In the campaign of 1398, on the 20th of July, was fought the eventful battle of Kenlis, or Kells, on the banks of the stream called "the King's river," in the barony of Kells, and county of Kilkenny. Here fell the Heir-Presumptive to the English crown, whose premature removal was one of the causes which contributed to the revolution in England, a year or two later.
On these occasions Joan learned that Kells was passionately keen to gamble, that he was a weak hand at cards, an honest gambler, and, strangely enough, a poor loser. Moreover, when he lost he drank heavily, and under the influence of drink he was dangerous.
And here he lay, a shattered wreck, dying for a wicked act, the last of many crimes. It was a tragedy. It made Joan think of the hard lot of mothers, and then of this unsettled Western wild, where men flocked in packs like wolves, and spilled blood like water, and held life nothing. Joan sought her rest and soon slept. In the morning she did not at once go to Kells.
"Reckon I figgered wrong, boss," replied Pearce. "He looked sick to me, but game," said Handy Oliver. "Kells is right, Red, an' you've been sore-headed over nothin'!" "Mebbe. But ain't it good figgerin' to make Cleve do some kind of a job, even if he is on the square?" They all acquiesced to this, even Kells slowly nodding his head.
Kells watched him the men watched him and Jim Cleve's piercing eyes glittered in the shadow, fixed upon that massive face. Manifestly Gulden meant to speak, but in his slowness there was no laboring, no pause from emotion. He had an idea and it moved like he moved.
"I shot him for lying to me." Gulden stared. His men muttered and gazed at one another and around the cabin. "Pearce told me you set Cleve to kill me," suddenly spoke up the giant. If he expected to surprise Kells he utterly failed. "That's another and bigger lie," replied the bandit leader, disgustedly. "Gulden, do you think my mind's gone?"
Another change, slower and more subtle, passed over Kells. He did not see Joan. He forgot her. The white shaded out of his face, leaving a gray like that of his somber eyes. Spirit, sense, life, were fading from him. The quivering of a racked body ceased. And all that seemed left was a lonely soul groping on the verge of the dim borderland between life and death.
It was no longer a struggle, as of old, of Celt against Saxon, but of Catholic against Protestant. The Papists within the Pale joined hands in it with the wild kernes outside the Pale. When the governing body of the rebels met at Kells in the following spring they called themselves "Confederate Catholics," resolved to defend "the public and free exercise of the true and Catholic Roman religion."
"You do a lotta sayin’, Kells." The scowl was gone; Shannon’s battered mouth was actually smiling. But, Drew decided, he liked the scowl better than the smile and the tone of the voice accompanying it. "Some men oughtta put a hobble on their tongues. Sure, I know these young whelps an’ their pa too. Sniffin’ round where they ain’t wanted.
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