t all! I heerd Father John say, 'it was well they found
it out, for there'd be a curse on them guineas, and every hand that
would touch one of them _in secla seclorum_;' and they wer' all tuck
away in a bag that night, and buried by the Priest in a saycret place,
where they'll never be found till the Day of Judgment."

Just as the story came to its end, the attention of the group was drawn
off by seeing numbers of people running in a particular direction, while
the sound of voices and the general excitement shewed something new was
going forward. The noise increased, and now, loud shouts were heard,
mingled with the rattling of sticks and the utterance of those party
cries so popular in an Irish fair. The young men stood still as if the
affair was a mere momentary ebullition not deserving of attention, nor
sufficiently important to merit the taking any farther interest in it;
nor did they swerve from the resolve thus tacitly formed, as from time
to time some three or four would emerge from the crowd, leading forth
one, whose bleeding temples, or smashed head, made retreat no longer
dishonourable.

"They're at it early," was the cool commentary of Owen Connor, as with a
smile of superciliousness he looked towards the scene of strife.

"The Joyces is always the first to begin," remarked one of his
companions.

"And the first to lave off too," said Owen; "two to one is what they
call fair play."

"That's Phil's voice!--there now, do you hear him shouting?"

"'Tis that he's best at," said Owen, whose love for the pretty Mary
Joyce was scarcely equalled by his dislike of her ill-tempered brother.

At this moment the shouts became louder and wilder, the screams of the
women mingling with the uproar, which no longer seemed a mere passing
skirmish, but a downright severe engagement.

"What is it all about, Christy?" said Owen, to a young fellow led past
between two friends, while the track of blood marked every step he went.

"'Tis well it becomes yez to ax," muttered the other, with his swollen
and pallid lips, "when the Martins is beating your landlord's eldest son
to smithereens."

"Mr. Leslie--young Mr. Leslie?" cried the three together; but a wild
war-whoop from the crowd gave the answer back. "Hurroo! Martin for ever!
Down with the Leslies! Ballinashough! Hurroo! Don't leave one of them
living! Beat their sowles out!"

"Leslie for ever!" yelled out Owen, with a voice heard over every part
of the field; and wi