The old squire felt his animal heat much revived by the warmth of the frieze coat, and his spirits, now that the dreadful scene into which he had been so unexpectedly cast had passed away without danger, began to rise so exuberantly that his conversation became quite loquacious and mirthful, if not actually, to a certain extent, incoherent.

“Sir,” said he, “you must come home with me—­confound me, but you must, and you needn’t say nay, now, for I shall neither take excuse nor apology.  I am a hospitable man, Mr.—­what’s this your name is?”

“My name, sir,” replied the other, “is Reilly—­William Reilly, or, as I am more generally called, Willy Reilly.  The name, sir, though an honorable one, is, in this instance, that of an humble man, but one who, I trust, will never disgrace it.”

“You must come home with me, Mr. Reilly.  Not a word now.”

“Such is my intention, sir,” replied Reilly.  “I shall not leave you until I see that all risk of danger is past—­until I place you safely under your own roof.”

“Well, now,” continued the old squire, “I believe a Papist can be a gentleman—­a brave man—­a man of honor, Mr. Reilly.”

“I am not aware that there is any thing in his religion to make him either dishonorable or cowardly, sir,” replied Reilly with a smile.

“No matter,” continued the other, who found a good deal of difficulty in restraining his prejudices on that point, no matter, sir, no matter, Mr.—­a—­a—­oh, yes, Reilly, we will have nothing to do with religion—­away with it—­confound religion, sir, if it prevents one man from being thankful, and grateful too, to another, when that other has saved his life.  What’s your state and condition in society, Mr.—? confound the scoundrel! he’d have shot me.  We must hang that fellow—­the Red Rapparee they call him—­a dreadful scourge to the country; and, another thing, Mr.—­Mr. Mahon—­you must come to my daughter’s wedding.  Not a word now—­by the great Boyne, you must.  Have you ever seen my daughter, sir?”

“I have never had that pleasure,” replied Reilly, “but I have heard enough of her wonderful goodness and beauty.”

“Well, sir, I tell you to your teeth that I deny your words—­you have stated a falsehood, sir—­a lie, sir.”

“What do you mean, sir?” replied Reilly, somewhat indignantly.  “I am not in the habit of stating a falsehood, nor of submitting tamely to such an imputation.”

“Ha, ha, ha, I say it’s a lie still, my friend.  What did you say?  Why, that you had heard enough of her goodness and beauty.  Now, sir, by the banks of the Boyne, I say you didn’t hear half enough of either one or other.  Sir, you should know her, for although you are a Papist you are a brave man, and a gentleman.  Still, sir, a Papist is not—­curse it, this isn’t handsome of me, Willy.  I beg your pardon.  Confound all religions if it goes to that.  Still at the same time I’m bound to say as a loyal