nd
the constables sent for--an' plaze the Saver he'll be in the stone jug
afore his head gets gray any how, the black-hearted villin!"

It was even so; and the circumstances accounting for it are very simple.
Flanagan, having mounted one of the horses, made the best of his way
from what he apprehended was likely to become a scene of deadly strife.
Such was the nature of the road, however, that anything like a rapid
pace was out of the question. When he had got over about half the boreen
he was accosted in the significant terms of the Ribbon password of that
day.

"Good morrow!"

"Good morrow mornin' to you!"

"Arrah what Age may you be, neighbor?"

Now the correct words were, "What Age are we in?" (* This order or
throng of the Ages is taken from Pastorini) but they were often slightly
changed, sometimes through ignorance and sometimes from design, as in
the latter case less liable to remark when addressed to persons not
_up_.

"In the end of the Fifth," was the reply.

"An' if you wor shakin' hands wid a friend, how would you do it? Or
stay--all's right so far--but give us a grip of your cham ahas (right
hand)."

Flanagan, who apprehended pursuit, was too cautious to trust himself
within reach of any one coming from the direction in which the Bodagh
lived. He made no reply, therefore, to this, but urged his horse
forward, and attempted to get clear of his catechist.

"Dhar Dhegh! it's Flanagan," said a voice which was that of Alick Nulty;
and the next moment the equestrian was stretched in the mud, by a heavy
blow from the but of a carbine. Nearly a score of men were immediately
about him; for the party he met on his return were the Bodagh's son, his
servants, and such of the cottiers as lived near enough to be called up
to the rescue. On finding himself secured, he lost all presence of mind,
and almost all consciousness of his situation.

"I'm gone," said he; "I'm a lost man; all Europe can't save my life.
Don't kill me, boys; don't kill me; I'll go wid yez quietly--only, if I
am to die, let me die by the laws of the land."

"The laws of the land?" said John O'Brien; "oh, little, Bartle Flanagan,
you respected them. You needn' be alarmed now--you are safe here--to the
laws of the land we will leave you; and by them you must stand or fall."

Bartle Flanagan, we need scarcely say, was well guarded until a posse
of constables should arrive to take him into custody. But, in the mean
time, a large and incre