He had no earthly doubt that it was he who robbed the sheriff.  He knew, from furtive observations, as well as from general report, that a discreditable intimacy existed between him and Mary Mahon.  This woman’s little house was very convenient to that of Whitecraft, to whom she was very useful in a certain capacity.  She had now given up her trade of fortune-telling—­a trade which, at that period, in consequence of the ignorance of the people, was very general in Ireland.  She was now more beneficially employed.  Fergus, therefore, confident in his disguise, resolved upon a bold and hazardous stroke.  He began to apprehend that if ever Tom Steeple, fool though he was, kept too much about the haunts and resorts of the Rapparee, that cunning scoundrel, who was an adept in all the various schemes and forms of detection, might take the alarm, and, aided probably by Whitecraft, make his escape out of the country.  At best, the fool could only assure him of his whereabouts; but he felt it necessary, in addition to this, to procure, if the matter were possible, such evidence of his guilt as might render his conviction of the robbery of the sheriff complete and certain.  One evening a wretched-looking old man, repeating his prayers, with beads in hand, entered her cottage, which consisted of two rooms and a kitchen; and after having presented himself, and put on his hat—­for we need scarcely say that no Catholic ever prays covered—­he asked lodging in Irish, for the night, and at this time it was dusk.

“Well, good man,” she replied, “you can have lodgings here for this night.  God forbid I’d put a poor wandherer out, an’ it nearly dark.”

Fergus stared at her as if he did not understand what she said; she, however, could speak Irish right well, and asked him in that language if he could speak no English—­“Wuil Bearlha agud?” (Have you English?)

“Ha neil foccal vaun Bearlha agum.” (I haven’t one word of English.)

“Well,” said she, proceeding with the following short conversation in Irish, “you can sleep here, and I will bring you in a wap o’ straw from the garden, when I have it to feed my cow, which his honor, Sir Robert, gives me grass for; he would be a very kind man if he was a little more generous—­ha! ha! ha!”

“Ay, but doesn’t he hunt an’ hang, an’ transport our priests?”

“Why, indeed, I believe he doesn’t like a bone in a priest’s body; but then he’s of a different religion—­and it isn’t for you or me to construe him after our own way.”

“Well, well,” said Fergus, “it isn’t him I’m thinking of; but if I had a mouthful or two of something to ait I’d go to sleep—­for dear knows I’m tired and hungry.”

“Why, then, of coorse you’ll have something to ait, poor man, and while you’re eatin’ it I’ll fetch in a good bunch of straw, and make a comfortable shake-down for you.”

“God mark you to grace, avourneen!”

She then furnished him with plenty of oaten bread and mixed milk, and while he was helping himself she brought in a large launch of straw, which she shook out and settled for him.