from his jealousy of Sir Robert, which caused such an estrangement as prevented him for some time from visiting her house.  Tom Steeple, however, had haunted him as his shadow, without ever coming in contact with him personally, and on this night he had him set as a soho man has a hare in her form.  Guided, therefore, by the intelligent idiot and Fergus, the party readied the cottage in which the Rapparee resided.  The house was instantly surrounded and the door knocked at, for the party knew that the man was inside.

“Who is there?” asked the old woman who kept the cottage.

“Open the door instantly,” said the sheriff, “or we shall smash it in.”

“No, I won’t,” she replied; “no, I won’t, you bosthoon, whoever you are.  I never did nothin’ agin the laws, bad luck to them, and I won’t open my door to any strolling vagabone like you.”

“Produce the man we want,” said the sheriff, “or we shall arrest you for harboring an outlaw and a murderer.  Your house is now surrounded by military, acting under the king’s orders.”

“Give me time,” said the crone; “I was at my prayers when you came to disturb me, and I’ll finish them before I open the door, if you were to burn the house over my head, and myself in it.  Up,” said she to the Rapparee, “through the roof—­get that ould table undher your feet—­the thatch is thin—­slip out and lie on the roof till they go, and then let them whistle jigs to the larks if they like.”

The habits of escape peculiar to the Rapparees were well known to Fergus, who cautioned those who surrounded the house to watch the roof.  It was well they did so, for in less-time than we have taken to describe it the body of the Rapparee was seen projecting itself upwards through the thin thatch, and in an instant several muskets were levelled at him, accompanied by instant orders to surrender on pain of being shot.  Under such circumstances there was no alternative, and in a few minutes he was handcuffed and a prisoner.  The party then proceeded along the road on which some of the adventures already recorded in this narrative had taken place, when they were met, at a sharp angle of it, by Reilly and his Cooleen Bawn, both of whom were almost instantly recognized by the sheriff and his party.  Their arrest was immediate.

“Mr. Reilly,” said the sheriff, “I am sorry for this.  You must feel aware that I neither am or ever was disposed to be your enemy; but I now find you carrying away a Protestant heiress, the daughter of my friend, contrary to the laws of the land, a fact which in itself gives me the power and authority to take you into custody, which I accordingly do in his Majesty’s name.  I owe you no ill will, but in the meantime you must return with me to Squire Folliard’s house.  Miss Folliard, you must, as you know me to be your father’s friend, consider that I feel it my duty to restore you to him.”

“I am not without means of defence,” replied Reilly, “but the exercise of such means would be useless.  Two of your lives I might take; but yours, Mr. Sheriff, could not be one of them, and that you must feel.”