backwards
and forwards, a true picture of Irish grief.

"I'll stop his blubbering," said Considine, opening the box and taking out
a pistol, which he cocked leisurely, and pointed at the poor fellow's head;
"another syllable now, and I'll scatter your brains upon that pavement."

"And do, and divil thank you; sure, it's your trade."

The coolness of the reply threw us both off our guard so completely that we
burst out into a hearty fit of laughing.

"Come, come," said the count, at last, "this will never do; if he goes on
this way, we'll have the whole house about us. Come, then, harness the roan
mare; and here's half a crown for you."

"I wouldn't touch the best piece in your purse," said the poor boy; "sure
it's blood-money, no less."

The words were scarcely spoken, when Considine seized him by the collar
with one hand, and by the wrist with the other, and carried him over the
yard to the stable, where, kicking open the door, he threw him on a heap of
stones, adding, "If you stir now, I'll break every bone in your body;" a
threat that seemed certainly considerably increased in its terrors, from
the rough gripe he had already experienced, for the lad rolled himself up
like a ball, and sobbed as if his heart were breaking.

Very few minutes sufficed us now to harness the mare in the tax-cart, and
when all was ready, Considine seized the whip, and locking the stable-door
upon Patsey, was about to get up, when a sudden thought struck him.
"Charley," said he, "that fellow will find some means to give the alarm; we
must take him with us." So saying, he opened the door, and taking the poor
fellow by the collar, flung him at my feet in the tax-cart.

We had already lost some time, and the roan mare was put to her fastest
speed to make up for it. Our pace became, accordingly, a sharp one; and as
the road was bad, and the tax-cart no "patent inaudible," neither of us
spoke. To me this was a great relief. The events of the last few days had
given them the semblance of years, and all the reflection I could muster
was little enough to make anything out of the chaotic mass,--love,
mischief, and misfortune,--in which I had been involved since my leaving
O'Malley Castle.

"Here we are, Charley," said Considine, drawing up short at the door of a
little country ale-house, or, in Irish parlance, _shebeen_, which stood at
the meeting of four bleak roads, in a wild and barren mountain tract beside
the Shannon. "Here we are, my