ere his cabin stood. Scarcely, however, had he reached the spot, when
the fierce challenge of a dog attracted him. It was not his own poor
colley--he knew his voice well--and Owen's blood ran chilly at the sound
of that strange bark. He walked on, however, resolutely grasping his
stick in his hand, and suddenly, as he turned the angle of the cliff,
there stood his cabin, with a light gleaming from the little window.

"'Tis Phil Joyce maybe has put somebody in, to take care of the place,"
said he; but his fears gave no credence to the surmise.

Again the dog challenged, and at the same moment the door was opened,
and a man's voice called out, "Who comes there?" The glare of the fire
at his back shewed that he held a musket in his hand.

"'Tis me, Owen Connor," answered Owen, half sulkily, for he felt that
indescribable annoyance a man will experience at any question, as to his
approaching his own dwelling, even though in incognito.

"Stay back, then," cried the other; "if you advance another step, I'll
send a bullet through you."

"Send a bullet through me!" cried Owen, scornfully, yet even more
astonished than indignant. "Why, isn't a man to be let go to his own
house, without being fired at?"

"I'll be as good as my word," said the fellow; and as he spoke, Owen saw
him lift the gun to his shoulder and steadily hold it there. "Move one
step now, and you'll see if I'm not."

Owen's first impulse was to rush forward at any hazard, and if not
wounded, to grapple with his adversary; but he reflected for a second
that some great change must have occurred in his absence, which, in all
likelihood, no act of daring on his part could avert or alter. "I'll
wait for morning, anyhow," thought he; and without another word, or
deigning any answer to the other, he slowly turned, and retraced his
steps down the mountain.

There was a small mud hovel at the foot of the mountain, where Owen
determined to pass the night. The old man who lived there, had been a
herd formerly, but age and rheumatism had left him a cripple, and he now
lived on the charity of the neighbours.

"Poor Larry! I don't half like disturbing ye," said Owen, as he arrived
at the miserable contrivance of wattles that served for a door; but
the chill night air, and his weary feet decided the difficulty, and he
called out, "Larry--Larry Daly! open the door for me--Owen Connor. 'Tis
me!"

The old man slept with the light slumber of age, and despite the
consequ