llen in love and arranged to be killed in one
short day's work. I stared at my image in a mirror. Could I be The
O'Ruddy? Perhaps my name was Paddy or Jem Bottles? Could I pick myself
out in a crowd? Could I establish my identification? I little knew.

At first I thought of my calm friend who apparently drank blood for
his breakfast. Colonel Royale to me was somewhat of a stranger, but
his charming willingness to grind the bones of his friends in his
teeth was now quite clear. I fight the best swordsman in England as an
amusement, a show? I began to see reasons for returning to Ireland. It
was doubtful if old Mickey Clancy would be able to take full care of
my estate even with the assistance and prevention of Father Donovan.
All properties looked better while the real owner had his eye on them.
It would be a shame to waste the place at Glandore all for a bit of
pride of staying in England. Never a man neglected his patrimony but
that it didn't melt down to a kick in the breeches and much trouble in
the courts. I perceived, in short, that my Irish lands were in danger.
What could endanger them was not quite clear to my eye, but at any
rate they must be saved. Moreover it was necessary to take quick
measures. I started up from my chair, hastily recounting Jem Bottles's
five guineas.

But I bethought me of Lady Mary. She could hardly be my good fairy.
She was rather too plump to be a fairy. She was not extremely plump,
but when she walked something moved within her skirts. For my part I
think little of fairies, who remind me of roasted fowl's wing. Give me
the less brittle beauty which is not likely to break in a man's arms.

After all, I reflected, Mickey Clancy could take care quite well of
that estate at Glandore; and, if he didn't, Father Donovan would soon
bring him to trouble; and, if Father Donovan couldn't, why, the place
was worth very little any how. Besides, 'tis a very weak man who
cannot throw an estate into the air for a pair of bright eyes.

Aye, and Lady Mary's bright eyes! That was one matter. And there was
Forister's bright sword. That was another matter. But to my
descendants I declare that my hesitation did not endure an instant.
Forister might have an arm so supple and a sword so long that he might
be able to touch the nape of his neck with his own point, but I was
firm on English soil. I would meet him even if he were a _chevaux de
frise_. Little it mattered to me. He might swing the ten arms of an