We had the guidance of a young country lad of fine intelligence and true fidelity, who was acquainted with every foot of bog and mountain for miles around.

We spent several days rather agreeably, perambulating the ranges of hills between Kilfademore and Templenoe, embracing a district about fifteen miles square.

One night we slept in an empty cabin within a field of Kilfademore House, a fine old mansion, belonging to the father of Christabel,[15] the mountain poetess, which is now only inhabited by the tenant of the farm, while the whole available military and police force of the district were drawing their lines of circumvallation around this old house, which, as soon as they made the proper dispositions to prevent our escape, they burst into with the stealth and precipitancy of a robber band.
We were most kindly received and cared for wherever our friend or his guide bespoke a night's hospitality.

But although we unquestioningly reposed on the truth of all to whom our safety was committed, we felt the circle of our armed foes was closing and contracting around us, and it became indispensable to break through it.

It was clear that our steps were tracked, for every night a search was made for us in one or other of the houses over which the influence of our friend extended.