and to be profoundly ignorant of the real objects of the expedition.  This pliant auxiliary had, like many thrifty—­or more probably thriftless—­persons of that time, a double occupation.  He was amphibious in his habits, and lived equally on land and water.  At home he was a tailor, and abroad a seaman, frequently plying his craft as a skipper on the Bay, and sufficiently known in the latter vocation to render his present employment a matter to excite no suspicious remark.  It will be perceived in the course of his present adventure that he was quite innocent of any avowed complicity in the design which he was assisting.

Murray had a stout companion with him, a good friend to Talbot, probably one of the familiar frequenters of the Manor House of New Connaught,—­a bold fellow, with a hand and a heart both ready for any perilous service.  He may have been a comrade of the Cornet’s in his troop.  His name was Hugh Riley,—­a name that has been traditionally connected with dare-devil exploits ever since the days of Dermot McMorrogh.  There have been, I believe, but few hard fights in the world, to which Irishmen have had anything to say, without a Hugh Riley somewhere in the thickest part of them.

The preparations being now complete, Murray anchored his shallop near a convenient landing,—­perhaps within the Mattapony Creek.

In the dead of winter, about the 30th of January, 1685, Mrs. Talbot, with her servants, her child, and nurse, set forth from the Proprietary residence in St. Mary’s, to journey over to the Patuxent,—­a cold, bleak ride of fifteen miles.  The party were all on horseback:  the young boy, perhaps, wrapped in thick coverings, nestling in the arms of one of the men:  Mrs. Talbot braving the sharp wind in hood and cloak, and warmed by her own warm heart, which beat with a courageous pulse against the fierce blasts that swept and roared across her path.  Such a cavalcade, of course, could not depart from St. Mary’s without observation at any season; but at this time of the year so unusual a sight drew every inhabitant to the windows, and set in motion a current of gossip that bore away all other topics from every fireside.  The gentlemen of the Council, too, doubtless had frequent conference with the unhappy wife of their colleague, during her sojourn in the Government House, and perhaps secretly counselled with her on her adventure.  Whatever outward or seeming pretext may have been adopted for this movement, we can hardly suppose that many friends of the Proprietary were ignorant of its object.  We have, indeed, evidence that the enemies of the Proprietary charged the Council with a direct connivance in the scheme of Talbot’s escape, and made it a subject of complaint against Lord Baltimore that he afterwards approved of it.