. "I hardly think the police, or the king's throops
either, will try a chase after me this night."

There was more of gratified pride in this muttered reflection than at
first sight might appear; for Owen felt a kind of heroism in his own
daring at that moment, that supported and actually encouraged him in
his course. The old spirit of bold defiance, which for ages has
characterised the people; the resolute resistance to authority, or
to tyranny, which centuries have not erased, was strong in his hardy
nature; and he asked for nothing better, than to pit his own skill,
ingenuity, and endurance against his opponents, for the mere pleasure of
the encounter.

As there was little question on Owen's mind that no pursuit of him would
take place on such a night, he resolved to pass the time till day-break
within the walls of the old churchyard, the only spot he could think
of which promised any shelter. There was a little cell or crypt there,
where he could safely remain till morning. An hour's walking brought him
to the little gate, the last time he had entered which, was at his poor
father's funeral. His reflection, now, was rather on his own altered
condition since that day; but even on that thought he suffered himself
not to dwell. In fact, a hardy determination to face the future, in
utter forgetfulness of the past, was the part he proposed to himself;
and he did his utmost to bend his mind to the effort.

As he drew near the little crypt I have mentioned, he was amazed to see
the faint flickering of a fire within it. At first a superstitious fear
held him back, and he rapidly repeated some prayers to himself; but the
emotion was soon over, and he advanced boldly toward it. "Who's there?
stand! or give the word!" said a gruff voice from within. Owen stood
still, but spoke not. The challenge was like that of a sentry, and he
half-feared he had unwittingly strayed within the precincts of a patrol.
"Give the word at once! or you'll never spake another," was the savage
speech which, accompanied by a deep curse, now met his ears, while the
click of a gun-Cock was distinctly audible.

"I'm a poor man, without a home or a shelter," said Owen, calmly; "and
what's worse, I'm without arms, or maybe you wouldn't talk so brave."

"What's yer name? Where are ye from?"

"I'm Owen Connor; that's enough for ye, whoever ye are," replied he,
resolutely; "it's a name I'm not ashamed nor afraid to say, anywhere."

The man within the c