on
his shoulder, and with the ease and indifference he would have bestowed
upon an inanimate burden, coolly earned him into the parlour, and threw
him upon a sofa.

CHAPTER XII. THE GLEN AT MIDNIGHT.

"What have you got there, Mark?" called out the O'Donoghue, as the young
man threw the still insensible figure of the Doctor upon the sofa.

"Old Roach, of Killarney," answered Mark sullenly. "That confounded
fool, Kerry, must have been listening at the door there, to what we were
saying, and took him for Cassidy, the sub-sheriff; he fired a charge of
slugs at him--that's certain; but I don't think there's much mischief
done." As he spoke, he filled a goblet with wine, and without any waste
of ceremony, poured it down the Doctor's throat. "You're nothing the
worse, man," added he, roughly; "you've given many a more dangerous dose
yourself, I'll be bound, and people have survived it too."

"I'm better now," said Roach, in a faint voice; "I feel something
better; but may I never leave this spot if I don't prosecute that
scoundrel, O'Leary. It was all malice--I can swear to that."

"Not a bit of it, Roach; Mark says the fellow mistook you for Cassidy."

"No, no--don't tell me that: he knew me well; but I foresaw it all. He
filled my pony with water; I might as well be rolling a barrel before
me, as try to drive him this morning. The rascal had a spite against me
for giving him nothing; but he shall hang for it."

"Come, come, Roach, don't be angry; it's all past and over now; the
fellow did it for the best."

"Did it for the best! Fired a loaded blunderbuss into a fellow-creature
for the best!"

"To be sure he did," broke in Mark, with an imperious look and tone.
"There's no harm done, and you need not make such a work about it."

"Where's the pony and the gig, then?" called out Roach, suddenly
remembering the last sight he had of them.

"I heard the old beast clattering down the glen, as if he had fifty
kettles at his tail. They'll stop him at last; and if they shouldn't, I
don't suppose it matters much: the whole yoke wasn't worth a five pound
note--no, even giving the owner into the bargain," muttered he, as he
turned away.

[Illustration: 132]

The indignity of this speech acted like a charm upon Roach; as if
galvanised by the insult, he sat bolt upright on the sofa, and thrust
his hands down to the deepest recesses of his breeches pockets, his
invariable signal for close action. "What, sir, do you t