Was it not merely among
those who were under our thumb--the poor and the struggling, who fell in
consequence of your threats, and therefore through fear of us only;
but when higher game and vengeful purposes were in view, see what a
miserable hand you made of it. I tell you, Phil, if I were to live
through a whole eternity, I could never forgive M'Loughlin the triumph
that his eye had over me in Castle Cumber Fair. I felt that he looked
through me--that he saw as clearly into my very heart, as you would of
a summer day into a glass beehive. My eye quailed before him--my brow
fell; but then--well--no matter; I have him now--ho, ho, I have him
now!"

"I wonder the cars and carts are not coming before now," observed Phil,
"to take away the furniture, and other valuables."

"I am surprised myself," replied Val; "they ought certainly to have been
here before now. Darby got clear instructions to summon them."

"Perhaps they won't come," observed the other, "until--Gad, there's his
rascally knock, at all events. Perhaps he has sent them up."

"No," said Val; "I gave him positive instructions to order them here in
the first instance."

Darby now entered.

"Well, Darby," said Val, who, on account of certain misgivings, treated
the embryo gaoler with more civility than usual; "what news? How many
cars and carts have von got?"

Darby sat down and compressed his lips, blew out his cheeks, and after
looking about the apartment for a considerable time, let out his breath
gradually until the puff died away.

"What's the matter with you, Darby?" again inquired Val.

Darby went over to him, and looking seriously into his face--then
suddenly laying down his hat--said, as he almost wrung his hands--

"There's a Spy, sir, on the Estate; a Popish Spy, as sure as Idolathry
is rank in this benighted land."

"A Spy!" exclaimed Phil, "we know there is."

"Be quiet, Phil--who is he, Darby?"

"Why, sir, a fellow--of the name of Weasand--may Satan open a gusset
in his own for him this day! Sure, one Counsellor Browbeater, at the
Castle, sir--they say he's the Lord o' the Black Trot--Lord save us--
whatever that is--"

"The Back Trot, Darby--go on."

"Well, sir, the Back Trot; but does that mean that he trots backwards,
sir?"

"Never mind, Darby, he'll trot anyway that will serve his own
purposes--go on, I tell you."

"Well, sir, sure some one has wrote to this Counsellor Browbeater about
him, and what do you think, but Coun