This kind offer they declined, and as the short rush-light was nearly burned out, and as she had not another ready, she got what is called a cam or grisset, put it on the hearth-stone, with a portion of hog’s lard in it; she then placed the lower end of the tongs in the fire, until the broad portion of them, with which the turf is gripped, became red hot; she then placed the lard in the grisset between them, and squeezed it until nothing remained but pure oil; through this she slowly drew the peeled rushes, which were instantly saturated with the grease, after which she left them on a little table to cool.  Among the poorer classes—­small farmers and others—­this process is performed every evening a little before dusk.  Having thus supplied them with these lights, the pious widow left them to their own conversation and retired to the little room in order to repeat her rosary.  We also will leave them to entertain themselves as best they can, and request our readers to follow us to a different scene.

CHAPTER VII.—­An Accidental Incident favorable to Reilly

—­And a Curious Conversation

We return to the party from whom Fergus Reilly had so narrow an escape.  As our readers may expect, they bent their steps to the magnificent residence of Sir Robert Whitecraft.  That gentleman was alone in his library, surrounded by an immense collection of books which he never read.  He had also a fine collection of paintings, of which he knew no more than his butler, nor perhaps so much.  At once sensual, penurious, and bigoted, he spent his whole time in private profligacy—­for he was a hypocrite, too—­in racking his tenantry, and exhibiting himself as a champion for Protestant principles.  Whenever an unfortunate Roman Catholic, whether priest or layman, happened to infringe a harsh and cruel law of which probably he had never heard, who so active in collecting his myrmidons, in order to uncover, hunt, and run down his luckless victim?  And yet he was not popular.  No one, whether of his own class or any other, liked a bone in his skin.  Nothing could infect him with the genial and hospitable spirit of the country, whilst at the same time no man living was so anxious to partake of the hospitality of others, merely because it saved him a meal.  All that sustained his character at the melancholy period of which we write was what people called the uncompromising energy of his principles as a sound and vigorous Protestant.

“Sink them all together,” he exclaimed upon this occasion, in a kind of soliloquy—­“Church and bishop and parson, what are they worth unless to make the best use we can of them?  Here I am prevented from going to that girl to-night—­and that barbarous old blockhead of a squire, who was so near throwing me off for a beggarly Papist rebel:  and doubly, trebly, quadruply cursed be that same rebel for crossing my path as he has done.  The cursed light-headed jade loves him too—­there’s no doubt of that—­but wait until I get him in my clutches, as I certainly shall, and, by —–­, his rebel carcass shall feed the crows.  But what noise is that?  They have returned; I must go down and learn their success.”