There was no resisting the inquisitive curiosity of my companion. The short dry cough, the little husky ‘ay,’ that sounded like anything rather than assent, which followed on my replies to his questions, and, more than all, the keen, oblique glances of his shrewd grey eyes, told me that I had utterly failed in all my attempts at mystification, and that he read me through and through.

‘And so,’ said he, at last, after a somewhat lengthy narrative of my shipwreck, ‘and so the Flemish sailors wear spurs?’

‘Spurs! of course not; why should they?’ asked I, in some astonishment.

‘Well, but don’t they?’ asked he again.

‘No such thing; it would be absurd to suppose it.’

‘So I thought,’ rejoined he; ‘and when I looked at yer “honour’s” boots’ (it was the first time he had addressed me by this title of deference), ‘and saw the marks on the heels for spurs, I soon knew how much of a sailor you were.’

‘And if not a sailor, what am I, then?’ asked I; for, in the loneliness of the mountain region where we walked, I could afford to throw off my disguise without risk.

‘Ye’re a French officer of dragoons, and God bless ye; but ye ‘re young to be at the trade. Aren’t I right, now?’

‘Not very far from it, certainly, for I am a lieutenant of hussars,’ said I, with a little of that pride which we of the loose pelisse always feel on the mention of our corps.

‘I knew it well all along,’ said he coolly; ‘the way you stood in the room, your step as you walked, and, above all, how you believed me when I spoke of the spring-tides, and the moon only in her second quarter, I saw you never was a sailor, anyhow. And so I set a-thinking what you were. You were too silent for a pedlar, and your hands were too white to be in the smuggling trade; but when I saw your boots, I had the secret at once, and knew ye were one of the French army that landed the other day at Killala.’

‘It was stupid enough of me not to have remembered the boots!’ said I, laughing.

‘Arrah, what use would it be,’ replied he; ‘sure ye ‘re too straight in the back, and your walk is too regular, and your toes turns in too much, for a sailor; the very way you hould a switch in your hand would betray you!’

‘So it seems, then, I must try some other disguise,’ said I, ‘if I ‘m to keep company with people as shrewd as you are.’

‘You needn’t,’ said he, shaking his head doubtfully; ‘any that wants to betray ye wouldn’t find it hard.’

I was not much flattered by the depreciating tone in which he dismissed my efforts at personation, and walked on for some time without speaking.

‘Yez came too late, four months too late,’ said he, with a sorrowful gesture of the hands. ‘When the Wexford boys was up, and the Kildare chaps, and plenty more ready to come in from the north, then, indeed, a few thousand French down here in the west would have made a differ; but what’s the good in it now? The best men we had are hanged or in gaol; some are frightened; more are traitors! ‘Tis too late—too late!’

‘But not too late for a large force landing in the north, to rouse the island to another effort for liberty.’

‘Who would be the gin’ral?’ asked he suddenly.

‘Napper Tandy, your own countryman,’ replied I proudly.

‘I wish ye luck of him!’ said he, with a bitter laugh; ‘‘tis more like mocking us than anything else the French does be, with the chaps they sent here to be gin’rals. Sure it isn’t Napper Tandy, nor a set of young lawyers like Tone and the rest of them, we wanted. It was men that knew how to drill and manage troops—fellows that was used to fightin’; so that when they said a thing, we might believe that they understhood it, at laste. I ‘m ould enough to remimber the “Wild Geese,” as they used to call them—the fellows that ran away from this to take sarvice in France; and I remimber, too, the sort of men the French were that came over to inspect them—soldiers, real soldiers, every inch of them. And a fine sarvice it was. Volte-face! cried he, holding himself erect, and shouldering his stick like a musket, marche! Ha, ha! ye didn’t think that was in me; but I was at the thrade long before you were born.’

‘How is this?’ said I, in amazement; ‘you were not in the French army?’

‘Wasn’t I, though? maybe I didn’t get that stick there.’ And he bared his breast as he spoke, to show the cicatrix of an old flesh-wound from a Highlander’s bayonet. ‘I was at Fontenoy!’

The last few words he uttered with a triumphant pride that I shall never forget. As for me, the mere name was magical. ‘Fontenoy’ was like one of those great words which light up a whole page of history; and it almost seemed impossible that I should see before me a soldier of that glorious battle.

‘Ay, faith!’ he added, ‘‘tis more than fifty, ‘tis nigh sixty years now since that, and I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was in the regiment “Tourville”; I was recruited for the “Dillon,” but they scattered us about among the other corps afterwards, because we used now and then to be fighting and quarrellin’ among one another. Well, it was the Dillons that gained the battle; for after the English was in the village of Fontenoy, and the French was falling back upon the heights near the wood—arrah, what’s the name of the wood? Sure, I’ll forget my own name next. Ay, to be sure, Verzon—the “Wood of Verzon.” Major Jodillon—that’s what the French called him, but his name was Joe Dillon—turned an eight-pounder short round into a little yard of a farmhouse, and making a breach for the gun, he opened a dreadful fire on the English column. It was loaded with grape, and at half-musket range, so you may think what a peppering they got. At last the column halted and lay down; and Joe seen an officer ride off to the rear, to bring up artillery to silence our guns. A few minutes more and it would be all over with us. So Joe shouts out as loud as he could, “Cavalry there! tell off by threes, and prepare to charge.” I needn’t tell you that the divil a horse nor a rider was within a mile of us at the time; but the English didn’t know that, and, hearin’ the ordher, up they jumps, and we heerd the word passin’, “Prepare to receive cavalry.” They formed square at once, and the same minute we plumped into them with such a charge as tore a lane right through the middle of them. Before they could recover, we opened a platoon-fire on their flank; they staggered, broke, and at last fell back in disorder upon Aeth, with the whole of the French army after them. Such firin’—grape, round shot, and musketry—I never seed afore, and we all shouting like divils, for it was more like a hunt nor anything else; for ye see the Dutch never came up, but left the English to do all the work themselves, and that’s the reason they couldn’t form, for they had no supportin’ column.

‘It was then I got that stick of the bayonet, for there was such runnin’ that we only thought of pelting after them as hard as we could; but ye see, there’s nothin’ so treacherous as a Highlander. I was just behind one, and had my sword-point between his bladebones ready to run him through, when he turned short about, and run his bayonet into me under the short ribs, and that was all I saw of the battle; for I bled till I fainted, and never knew more of what happened. ‘Tisn’t by way of making little of Frenchmen I say it, for I sarved too long wid them for that—but sorra taste of that victory ever they’d see if it wasn’t for the Dillons, and Major Joe that commanded them! The English knows it well, too! Maybe they don’t do us many a spite for it to this very day!’

‘And what became of you after that?’

‘That same summer I came over to Scotland with the young Prince Charles, and was at the battle of Prestonpans afterwards! and, what’s worse, I was at Culloden! Oh, that was the terrible day. We were dead bate before we began the battle. We were on the march from one o’clock the night before, under the most dreadful rain ever ye seen! We lost our way twice, and after four hours of hard marching, we found ourselves opposite a milldam we crossed early that same morning; for the guides led us all astray! Then came ordhers to wheel about face and go back again; and back we went, cursing the blaguards that deceived us, and almost faintin’ with hunger. Some of us had nothing to eat for two days, and the Prince, I seen myself, had only a brown bannock to a wooden measure of whisky for his own breakfast. Well, it’s no use talking; we were bate, and we retreated to Inverness that night, and next morning we surrendered and laid down our arms—that is, the “RÉgiment do Tournay” and the “Voltigeurs de Metz,” the corps I was in myself.’

‘And did you return to France?’

‘No; I made my way back to Ireland, and after loiterin’ about home some time, and not liking the ways of turning to work again, I took sarvice with one Mister Brooke, of Castle Brooke, in Fermanagh, a young man that was just come of age, and as great a divil, God forgive me, as ever was spawned. He was a Protestant, but he didn’t care much about one side or the other, but only wanted diversion and his own fun out of the world; and faix he took it, too! He had plenty of money, was a fine man to look at, and had courage to face a lion!

‘The first place we went to was Aix-la-Chapelle, for Mr. Brooke was named something—I forget what—to Lord Sandwich, that was going there as an Ambassador.

It was a grand life there while it lasted. Such liveries, such coaches, such elegant dinners every day, I never saw even in Paris. But my master was soon sent away for a piece of wildness he did. There was an ould Austrian there—a Count Riedensegg was his name—-and he was always plottin’ and schamin’ with this, that, and the other; buyin’ up the sacrets of others, and gettin’ at their private papers one way or the other; and at last he begins to thry the same game with us; and as he saw that Mr. Brooke was very fond of high play, and would bet anything one offered him, the ould count sends for a great gambler from Vienna, the greatest villain, they say, that ever touched a card. Ye may have heerd of him, tho’ ‘twas long ago that he lived, for he was well known in them times. He was the Baron von Breokendorf, and a great friend afterwards of the Prince Ragint and all the other blaguards in London.

‘Well, sir, the baron arrives in great state, with despatches, they said, but sorrow other despatch he carried nor some packs of marked cards, and a dice-box that could throw sixes whenever ye wanted; and he puts up at the Grand Hotel, with all his servants in fine liveries and as much state as a prince. That very day Mr. Brooke dined with the count, and in the evening himself and the baron sits down to the cards; and, pretending to be only playin’ for silver, they were bettin’ a hundred guineas on every game.

‘I always heerd that my master was cute with the cards, and that few was equal to him in any game with pasteboard or ivory; but, be my conscience, he met his match now, for if it was ould Nick was playin’ he couldn’t do the thrick nater nor the baron. He made everything come up just like magic: if he wanted a seven of diamonds, or an ace of spades, or the knave of clubs, there it was for you.

‘Most gentlemen would have lost temper at seein’ the luck so dead agin’ them, and everything goin’ so bad; but my master only smiled, and kept muttering to himself, “Faix, its beautiful; by my conscience its elegant; I never saw anybody could do it like that.” At last the baron stops and asks, “What is it he’s saying to himself?” “I’ll tell you by-and-by,” says my master, “when we’re done playing”; and so on they went, betting higher and higher, till at last the stakes wasn’t very far from a thousand pounds on a single card. At the end, Mr. Brooke lost everything, and in the last game, by way of generosity, the baron says to him, “Double or quit?” and he tuk it.

‘This time luck stood to my master, and he turned the queen of hearts; and as there was only one card could beat him, the game was all as one as his own. The baron takes up the pack, and begins to deal. “Wait,” says my master, leaning over the table, and talking in a whisper; “wait,” says he; “what are ye doin’ there wid your thumb?” for sure enough he had his thumb dug hard into the middle of the pack.

‘"Do you mane to insult me?” says the baron, getting mighty red, and throwing down the cards on the table. “Is that what you’re at?”

‘"Go on with the deal,” says Mr. Brooke quietly; “but listen to me,” and here he dropped his voice to a whisper, “as sure as you turn the king of hearts, I’ll send a bullet through your skull! Go on, now, and don’t rise from that seat till you ‘ve finished the game.” Faix he just did as he was bid; he turned a little two or three of diamonds, and gettin’ up from the table, he left the room, and the next morning there was no more seen of him in Aix-la-Chapelle. But that wasn’t the end of it, for scarce was the baron two posts on his journey when my master sends in his name, and says he wants to speak to Count Riedensegg. There was a long time and a great debatin’, I believe, whether they’d let him in or not; for the count couldn’t make if it was mischief he was after; but at last he was ushered into the bedroom where the other was in bed.

‘"Count,” says he, after he fastened the door, and saw that they was alone, “Count, you tried a dirty thrick with that dirty spalpeen of a baron—an ould blaguard that’s as well known as Preney the robber—but I forgive you for it all, for you did it in the way of business. I know well what you was afther; you wanted a peep at our despatches—there, ye needn’t look cross and angry—why wouldn’t ye do it, just as the baron always took a sly glance at my cards before he played his own. Well, now, I’m just in the humour to sarve you. They’re not trating me as they ought here, and I’m going away, and if you’ll give me a few letthers to some of the pretty women in Vienna, Katinka Batthyani, and Amalia Gradoffseky, and one or two men in the best set, I’ll send you in return something that will surprise you.”

‘It was after a long time and great batin’ about the bush, that the ould count came in; but the sight of a sacret cipher did the business, and he consented.

‘"There it is,” says Mr. Brooke, “there’s the whole key to our correspondence; study it well, and I’ll bring you a sacret despatch in the evening—something that will surprise you.”

‘"Ye will—will ye?” says the count.

‘"On the honour of an Irish gentleman, I will,” says Mr. Brooke.

‘The count sits down on the spot and writes the letters to all the princesses and countesses in Vienna, saying that Mr. Brooke was the elegantest, and politest, and most trusty young gentleman ever he met; and telling them to treat him with every consideration.

‘"There will be another account of me,” says the master to me, “by the post; but I ‘ll travel faster, and give me a fair start, and I ask no more.”

‘And he was as good as his word, for he started that evening for Vienna, without lave or license, and that’s the way he got dismissed from his situation.’

‘And did he break his promise to the count, or did he really send him any intelligence?’

‘He kept his word, like a gentleman; he promised him something that would surprise him, and so he did. He sent him “The Weddin’ of Ballyporeen” in cipher. It took a week to make out, and I suppose they ‘ve never got to the right understandin’ it yet.’

‘I’m curious to hear how he was received in Vienna, after this,’ said I. ‘I suppose you accompanied him to that city?’

‘Troth I did, and a short life we led there. But here we are now, at the end of our journey. That’s Father Doogan’s down there, that small, low, thatched house in the hollow.’

‘A lonely spot, too. I don’t see another near it for miles on any side.’

‘Nor is there. His chapel is at Murrah, about three miles off. My eyes isn’t over good; but I don’t think there’s any smoke coming out of the chimley.’

‘You are right—there is not.’

‘He’s not at home, then, and that’s a bad job for us, for there’s not another place to stop the night in.’

‘But there will be surely some one in the house.’

‘Most likely not; ‘tis a brat of a boy from Murrah does be with him when he’s at home, and I’m sure he’s not there now.’

This reply was not very cheering, nor was the prospect itself much brighter. The solitary cabin, to which we were approaching, stood in a rugged glen, the sides of which were covered with a low furze, intermixed here and there with the scrub of what once had been an oak forest. A brown, mournful tint was over everything—sky and landscape alike; and even the little stream of clear water that wound its twining course along took the same colour from the gravelly bed it flowed over. Not a cow nor sheep was to be seen, nor even a bird; all was silent and still.

‘There’s few would like to pass their lives down there, then!’ said my companion, as if speaking to himself.

‘I suppose the priest, like a soldier, has no choice in these matters.’

‘Sometimes he has, though. Father Doogan might have had the pick of the county, they say; but he chose this little quiet spot here. He’s a friar of some ordher abroad, and when he came over, two or three years ago, he could only spake a little Irish, and, I believe, less English; but there wasn’t his equal for other tongues in all Europe. They wanted him to stop and be the head of a college somewhere in Spain, but he wouldn’t. “There was work to do in Ireland,” he said, and there he’d go, and to the wildest and laste civilised bit of it besides; and ye see that he was not far ont in his choice when he took Murrah.’

‘Is he much liked here by the people?’

‘They’d worship him, if he’d let them, that’s what it is; for if he has more larnin’ and knowledge in his head than ever a bishop in Ireland, there’s not a child in the barony his equal for simplicity. He that knows the names of the stars, and what they do be doing, and where the world’s going, and what’s comin’ afther her, hasn’t a thought for the wickedness of this life, no more than a sucking infant! He could tell you every crop to put in your ground from this to the day of judgment, and I don’t think he’d know which end of the spade goes into the ground.’

While we were thus talking, we reached the door, which, as well as the windows, was closely barred and fastened. The great padlock, however, on the former, with characteristic acuteness, was looked without being hasped, so that, in a few seconds, my old guide had undone all the fastenings, and we found ourselves under shelter.

A roomy kitchen, with a few cooking utensils, formed the entrance hall; and as a small supply of turf stood in one corner, my companion at once proceeded to make a fire, congratulating me as he went on with the fact of our being housed, for a long-threatening thunderstorm had already burst, and the rain was now swooping along in torrents.

While he was thus busied, I took a ramble through the little cabin, curious to see something of the ‘interior’ of one whose life had already interested me. There were but two small chambers, one at either side of the kitchen. The first I entered was a bedroom, the only furniture being a common bed, or a tressel like that of a hospital, a little coloured print of St. Michael adorning the wall overhead. The bed-covering was cleanly, but patched in many places, and bespeaking much poverty, and the black ‘soutane’ of silk that hung against the wall seemed to show long years of service. The few articles of any pretensions to comfort were found in the sitting-room, where a small book-shelf with some well-thumbed volumes, and a writing-table covered with papers, maps, and a few pencil-drawings, appeared. All seemed as if he had just quitted the spot a few minutes before; the pencil lay across a half-finished sketch; two or three wild plants were laid within, the leaves of a little book on botany; and a chess problem, with an open book beside it, still waited for solution on a little board, whose workmanship clearly enough betrayed it to be by his own hands.

I inspected everything with an interest inspired by all I had been hearing of the poor priest, and turned over the little volumes of his humble library, to trace, if I might, some due to his habits in his readings. They were all, however, of one cast and character—religious tracts and offices, covered with annotations and remarks, and showing by many signs the most careful and frequent perusal. It was easy to see that his taste for drawing or for chess were the only dissipations he permitted himself to indulge. What a strange life of privation, thought I, alone and companionless as he must be! and while speculating on the sense of duty which impelled such a man to accept a post so humble and unpromising, I perceived that on the wall right opposite to me there hung a picture, covered by a little curtain of green silk.

Curious to behold the saintly effigy so carefully enshrined, I drew aside the curtain, and what was my astonishment to find a little coloured sketch of a boy about twelve years old, dressed in the tawdry and much-worn uniform of a drummer. I started. Something flashed suddenly across my mind, that the features, the dress, the air, were not unknown to me. Was I awake, or were my senses misleading me? I took it down and held it to the light, and as well as my trembling hands permitted, I spelled out at the foot of the drawing, the words ‘Le Petit Maurice, as I saw him last.’ Yes, it was my own portrait, and the words were in the writing of my dearest friend in the world, the PÈre Michel. Scarce knowing what I did, I ransacked books and papers on every side, to confirm my suspicions, and although his name was nowhere to be found, I had no difficulty in recognising his hand, now so forcibly recalled to my memory.

Hastening into the kitchen, I told my guide that I must set out to Murrah at once, that it was, above all, important that I should see the priest immediately. It was in vain that he told me he was unequal to the fatigue of going farther, that the storm was increasing, the mountain torrents were swelling to a formidable size, that the path could not be discovered after dark; I could not brook the thought of delay, and would not listen to the detail of difficulties. ‘I must see him and I will,’ were my answers to every obstacle. If I were resolved on one side, he was no less obstinate on the other; and after explaining with patience all the dangers and hazards of the attempt, and still finding me unconvinced, he boldly declared that I might go alone, if I would, but that he would not leave the shelter of a roof, such a night, for any one.

There was nothing in the shape of argument I did not essay. I tried bribery, I tried menace, flattery, intimidation, all—and all with the like result. ‘Wherever he is to-night, he’ll not leave it, that’s certain,’ was the only satisfaction he would vouchsafe, and I retired beaten from the contest, and disheartened. Twice I left the cottage, resolved to make the journey alone, but the utter darkness of the night, the torrents of rain that beat against my face, soon showed me the impracticability of the attempt, and I retraced my steps crest-fallen and discomfited. The most intense curiosity to know how and by what chances he had come to Ireland mingled with my ardent desire to meet him. What stores of reminiscence had we to interchange! Nor was it without pride that I bethought me of the position I then held—an officer of a hussar regiment, a soldier of more than one campaign, and high on the list for promotion. If I hoped, too, that many of the good father’s prejudices against the career I followed would give way to the records of my own past life, I also felt how, in various respects, I had myself conformed to many of his notions. We should be dearer, closer friends than ever. This I was sure of.

I never slept the whole night through. Tired and weary as the day’s journey had left me, excitement was still too strong for repose, and I walked up and down, lay for half an hour on my bed, rose to look out, and peer for coming dawn. Never did hours lag so lazily. The darkness seemed to last for an eternity, and when at last day did break, it was through the lowering gloom of skies still charged with rain, and an atmosphere loaded with vapour.

‘This is a day for the chimney-corner, and thankful to have it we ought to be,’ said my old guide, as he replenished the turf fire, at which he was preparing our breakfast. ‘Father Doogan will be home here afore night, I’m sure, and as we have nothing better to do, I’ll tell you some of our old adventures when I lived with Mr. Brooke. Twill sarve to pass the time, anyway.’

‘I’m off to Murrah, as soon as I have eaten something,’ replied I.

‘Tis little you know what a road it is,’ said he, smiling dubiously. ‘‘Tis four mountain rivers you ‘d have to cross, two of them, at least, deeper than your head, and there’s the pass of Barnascorney, where you ‘d have to turn the side of a mountain, with a precipice hundreds of feet below you, and a wind blowing that would wreck a seventy-four! There ‘s never a man in the barony would venture over the same path with a storm ragin’ from the nor’-west.’

‘I never heard of a man being blown away off a mountain,’ said I, laughing contemptuously.

‘Arrah, didn’t ye, then? then maybe ye never lived in parts where the heaviest ploughs and harrows that can be laid in the thatch of a cabin are flung here and there, like straws, and the strongest timbers torn out of the walls, and scattered for miles along the coast, like the spars of a shipwreck.’

‘But so long as a man has hands to grip with——’

‘How ye talk! sure, when the wind can tear the strongest trees up by the roots; when it rolls big rocks fifty and a hundred feet out of their place; when the very shingle on the mountain-side is flying about like dust and sand, where would your grip be? It is not only on the mountains either, but down in the plains, ay, even in the narrowest glens, that the cattle lies down under shelter of the rocks; and many’s the time a sheep, or even a heifer, is swept away off the cliffs into the sea.’

With many an anecdote of storm and hurricane he seasoned our little meal of potatoes. Some curious enough, as illustrating the precautionary habits of a peasantry, who, on land, experience many of the vicissitudes supposed peculiar to the sea; others too miraculous for easy credence, but yet vouched for by him with every affirmative of truth. He displayed all his powers of agreeability and amusement, but his tales fell on unwilling ears, and when our meal was over I started up and began to prepare for the road.

‘So you will go, will you?’ said he peevishly. ‘‘Tis in your country to be obstinate, so I ‘ll say nothing more; but maybe ‘tis only into throubles you ‘d be running, after all!’

‘I’m determined on it,’ said I, ‘and I only ask you to tell me what road to take.’

‘There is only one, so there is no mistakin’ it; keep to the sheep-path, and never leave it except at the torrents; you must pass them how ye can. And when ye come to four big rocks in the plain, leave them to your left, and keep the side of the mountain for two miles, till ye see the smoke of the village underneath you. Murrah is a small place, and ye’ll have to look out sharp, or maybe ye’ll miss it.’

‘That’s enough,’ said I, putting some silver in his hand as I pressed it. ‘We ‘ll probably meet no more; good-bye, and many thanks for your pleasant company.’

‘No, we’re not like to meet again,’ said he thoughtfully, ‘and that’s the reason I’d like to give you a bit of advice. Hear me, now,’ said he, drawing closer and talking in a whisper; ‘you can’t go far in this country without being known; ‘tisn’t your looks alone, but your voice, and your tongue, will show what ye are. Get away out of it as fast as you can! there’s thraitors in every cause, and there’s chaps in Ireland would rather make money as informers than earn it by honest industry. Get over to the Scotch islands; get to Islay or Barra; get anywhere out of this for the time.’

‘Thanks for the counsel,’ said I, somewhat coldly, ‘I’ll have time to think over it as I go along;’ and with these words I set forth on my journey.