“Why,” replied the other, “I have heard nothing to his disadvantage.  He is a quiet, and, it is said, a pious man—­and I think he is too.  He is naturally silent, and seldom takes any part in our conversation.  He says, however, that his concealment here bears hard upon him, and is depressing his spirits every day more and more.  The only thing I ever could observe in him is what you saw yourself to-night-a slight relish for an acquaintance with the barrel.  He sometimes drains a drop—­indeed, sometimes too much—­out of it, when he gets our backs turned; but then he pleads low spirits three or four times a day—­indeed, so often that, upon my word, he’ll soon have the barrel pleading the same complaint.”

“Well,” replied Reilly, after listening attentively to him, “I desire you and your friends to watch that man closely.  I know something about him; and I tell you that if ever the laws become more lenient, the moment this man makes his appearance his bishop will deprive him of all spiritual jurisdiction for life.  Mark me now, Father Maguire; if he pleads any necessity for leaving this retreat and going abroad again into the world, don’t let a single individual of you remain, here one hour after him.  Provide for your safety and your shelter elsewhere as well as you can; if not, the worst consequences may—­nay, will follow.”

The priest promised to communicate this intelligence to his companions, one by one, after which, both he and Reilly, feeling fatigued and exhausted by what they had undergone in the course of the night, threw themselves each upon his couch of heather, and in a few minutes not only they, but all their companions, were sunk in deep sleep.

CHAPTEE XI.—­The Squire’s Dinner and his Guests.

We now return to Cooleen Bawn, who, after her separation from Reilly, retired to her own room, where she indulged in a paroxysm of deep grief, in consequence of her apprehension that she might never see him again.  She also calculated upon the certainty of being obliged to sustain a domestic warfare with her father, as the result of having made him the confidant of her love.  In this, however, she was agreeably disappointed; for, on meeting him the next morning, at breakfast, she was a good deal surprised to observe that he made no allusion whatsoever to the circumstance—­if, indeed, an occasional muttering of some unintelligible words, sotto voce, might not be supposed to allude to it.  The truth was, the old man found the promise he had made to Sir Robert one of such difficulty to his testy and violent disposition, that his language, and the restraint which he felt himself under the necessity of putting on it, rendered his conversation rather ludicrous.

“Well, Helen,” he said, on entering the breakfast-parlor, “how did you rest last night, my love?  Rested sound—­eh?  But you look rather pale, darling. (Hang the rascal!)”

“I cannot say that I slept as well as usual, sir.  I felt headache.”