ick.

'This will never do,' said Mahon; 'I had better tell them I'll drive you
over myself. And now, just lie down for an hour or two, and keep quiet.'

This advice I felt was good; and thanking my kind friend with a squeeze
of the hand, for I could not speak, I threw myself upon my bed, and
strange enough, while such contending emotions disturbed my brain, fell
asleep almost immediately.

CHAPTER XXVI. THE DINNER-PARTY AT MOUNT BROWN

I awoke refreshed after half-an-hour's doze, and then every circumstance
of the whole day was clear and palpable before me. I remembered each
minute particular, and could bring to my mind all the details of the
race itself, notwithstanding the excitement they had passed in, and the
rapidity with which they succeeded one another.

My first thought was to visit poor Joe; and creeping stealthily to his
room, I opened the door. The poor fellow was fast asleep. His features
had already become coloured with fever, and a red hectic spot on either
cheek told that the work of mischief had begun; yet still his sleep was
tranquil, and a half smile curled; his bloodless lips. On his bed
his old hunting-cap was placed, a bow of white and green ribbons--the
colours I wore--fastened gaudily in the front; upon this, doubtless,
he had been gazing to the last moment of his waking. I now stole
noiselessly back, and began a letter to O'Grady, whose anxiety as to the
result would, I knew, be considerable.

It was not without pride, I confess, that I narrated the events of the
day; yet when I came to that part of my letter in which Joe was to be
mentioned, I could not avoid a sense of shame in acknowledging the cruel
contrast between _my_ conduct and _his_ gratitude. I did not attempt
to theorise upon what he had done, for I felt that O'Grady's better
knowledge of his countrymen would teach him to sound the depths of a
motive, the surface of which I could but skim. I told him frankly that
the more I saw of Ireland the less I found I knew about it; so much
of sterling good seemed blended with unsettled notions and unfixed
opinions; such warmth of heart, such frank cordiality, with such traits
of suspicion and distrust, that I could make nothing of them. Either,
thought I, these people are born to present the anomaly of all that is
most opposite and contradictory in human nature, or else the fairest
gifts that ever graced manhood have been perverted and abused by
mismanagement and misguidance.

I h