I have already passingly alluded to Joe's conversational powers; and certainly they were exercised on this occasion with a more than common ability. Either taking my silence as a suggestion for him to speak, or perhaps, and more probably, perceiving that some deep depression was over me, the kind-hearted fellow poured forth his stores of song and legend without ceasing. Now amusing me by his wild and fitful snatches of old ballads, now narrating in his simple but touching eloquence some bygone story of thrilling interest, the long hours of the night passed over, and at daybreak we found ourselves descending the mountain towards a large and cultivated valley, in which I could faintly distinguish in the misty distance the little mill where our relay was to be found.

I stopped for a few minutes to gaze upon the scene before me. It was one of those peaceful landscapes of rural beauty which beam more of soothing influence upon the sorrow-struck heart than the softest voice of consolation. Unlike the works of man, they speak directly to our souls while they appeal to our reason; and the truth comes forced upon us, that we alone must not repine. A broad and richly cultivated valley was bounded by mountains whose sides were clothed with deep wood; a stream, whose wayward course watered every portion of the plain, was seen now flowing among the grassy meadows, now peeping from the alders that lined the banks. The heavy mist of morning was rolling lazily up the mountain-side; and beneath its grey mantle the rich green of pasture and meadow land was breaking forth, dotted with cattle and sheep. As I looked, Joe knelt down and placed his ear upon the ground, and seemed for some minutes absorbed in listening. Then suddenly springing up, he cried out—

'The mill isn't going to-day! I wonder what's the matter. I hope Andy isn't sick.'

A shade of sorrow came over his wild features as he muttered between his teeth the verse of some old song, of which I could but catch the last two lines—

'Ay,' cried he aloud, as his eye glistened with an unnatural lustre, 'better be poor Tipperary Joe, without house or home, father or mother, sister or friend, and when the time comes, run to earth, without a wet eye after him.'

'Come, come, Joe, you have many a friend! and when you count them over, don't forget me in the reckoning.'

'Whisht, whisht!' he whispered in a low voice, as if fearful of being overheard, 'don't say that; them's dangerous words.'

I turned towards him with astonishment, and perceived that his whole countenance had undergone a striking change. The gay and laughing look was gone; the bright colour had left his cheek, and a cold, ghastly paleness was spread over his features; and as he cast a hurried and stealthy look around him, I could mark that some secret fear was working within him.

'What is it, Joe?' said I; 'what's the matter? Are you ill?'

'No,' said he, in a tone scarce audible—'no, but you frightened me just now when you called me your friend.'

'How could that frighten you, my poor fellow?'

'I 'll tell you. That's what they called my father; they said he was friendly with the gentlemen, and sign's on it.' He paused, and his eye became rooted to the ground as if on some object there from which he could not turn his gaze. 'Yes, I mind it well; we were sitting by the fire in the guard-room all alone by ourselves—the troops was away, I don't know where—when we heard the tramp of men marching, but not regular, but coming as if they didn't care how, and horses and carts rattling and rumbling among them.

'“Thim's the boys,” says my father. “Give me that ould cockade there, till I stick it in my cap; and reach me over the fiddle, till I rise a tune for them.”

'I mind little more till we was marching at the head of them through the town, down towards the new college that was building—it's Maynooth, I'm speaking about—and then we turned to the left, my father scraping away all the time every tune he thought they 'd like; and if now and then by mistake he 'd play anything that did not plaze them, they'd damn and blast him with the dreadfullest curses, and stick a pike into him, till the blood would come running down his back; and then my father would cry out—

'“I'll tell my friends on you for this—divil a lie in it, but I will”

'At last we came to the duke's wall, and then my father sat down on the roadside, and cried out that he wouldn't go a step farther, for I was crying away with sore feet at the pace we were going, and asking every moment to be let sit down to rest myself.

'“Look at the child,” said he, “his feet's all bleeding.”

'“Ye have only a little farther to go,” says one of them that had crossed belts on and a green sash about him.

'“The divil resave another step,” says my father.

'“Tell Billy to play us 'The Parmer's Daughter' before he goes,” says one in the crowd.

'“I 'd rather hear 'The Little Bowld Fox,'” says another.

'“No, no, 'Baltiorum! Baltiorum!'” says many more behind.

'“Ye shall have them all,” says my father, “and that'll plaze ye.”

'And so he set to, and played the three tunes as beautiful as ever ye heard; and when he was done, the man with the belts ups and says to him—

'“Ye're a fine hand, Billy, and it's a pity to lose you, and your friends will be sorry for you,” and he said this with a grin; “but take the spade there and dig a hole, for we must be jogging, it's nigh day.”

'Well, my father, though he was tired enough, took the spade, and began digging as they told him; for he thought to himself, “The boys is going to hide the pikes and the carbines before they go home.” Well, when he worked half an hour, he threw off his coat, and set to again; and at last he grew tired and sat down on the side of the big hole, and called out—

'“Isn't it big enough now, boys?”

'“No,” says the captain, “nor half.”

'So my father set to once more, and worked away with all his might; and they all stood by, talking and laughing with one another.

'“Will it do now?” says my father; “for sure enough I'm clean beat.”

'“Maybe it might,” says one of them; “lie down, and see if it's the length.”

'“Well, is it that it's for?” says my father; “faix, I never guessed it was a grave.” And so he took off his cap and lay down his full length in the hole.

'“That's all right,” says the others, and began with spades and shovels to cover him up. At first he laughed away as hearty as the rest; but when the mould grew heavy on him he began to screech out to let him up; and then his voice grew weaker and fainter, and they waited a little; then they worked harder, and then came a groan, and all was still; and they patted the sods over him and heaped them up. And then they took me and put me in the middle of them, and one called out, “March!” I thought I saw the green sod moving on the top of the grave as we walked away, and heard a voice half choking calling out, “There, boys, there!” and then a laugh. But sure I often hear the same still, when there's nobody near me, and I do be looking on the ground by myself.'

'Great God!' cried I, 'is this true?'

'True as you 're there,' replied he. 'I was ten years of age when it happened, and I never knew how time went since, nor how long it is ago; only it was in the year of the great troubles here, when the soldiers and the country-people never could be cruel enough to one another; and whatever one did to-day, the others would try to beat it out to-morrow. But it's truth every word of it; and the place is called “Billy the fool's grave” to this hour. I go there once a year to see it myself.'

This frightful story—told, too, with all the simple power of truth—thrilled through me with horror long after the impression seemed to have faded away from him who told it; and though he still continued to speak on, I heard nothing; nor did I mark our progress, until I found myself beside the little stream which conducted to the mill.