“Well,” said one of them, “it’s a dear case that the scoundrel can make himself invisible.  We have orders from Sir Eobert to shoot him, and to put the matter upon the principle of resistance against the law, on his side.  Sir Robert has been most credibly informed that that disloyal parson has concealed him in his house for nearly the last month.  Now who could ever think of looking for a Popish rebel in the house of a Protestant parson?  What the deuce is keeping those fellows?  I hope they won’t go too far into the country.”

“Any man that says Mr. Brown is a disloyal parson is a liar,” said one of them in a stem voice.

“And I say,” said another, with a hiccough, “that, hang me, but I think this same Reilly is as loyal a man as e’er a one amongst us.  My name is George Johnston, and I’m not ashamed of it; and the truth is, that only Miss Folliard fell in love with Reilly, and refused to marry Sir Robert, Reilly would have been a loyal man still, and no ill-will against him.  But, by —–­ it was too bad to burn his house and place—­and see whether Sir Robert will come off the better of it.  I myself am a good Protestant—­show me the man that will deny that, and I’ll become his schoolmaster only for five minutes.  I do say, and I’ll tell it to Sir Robert’s face, that there’s something wrong somewhere.  Give me a Papish that breaks the law, let him be priest or layman, and I’m the boy that will take a grip of him if I can get him.  But, confound me, if I like to be sent out to hunt innocent, inoffensive Papishes, who commit no crime except that of having property that chaps like Sir Robert have their eye on.  Now suppose the Papishes had the upper hand, and that they treated us so, what would you say?”

“All I can say is,” replied another of them, “that I’d wish to get the reward.”

“Curse the reward,” said Johnston, “I like fair play.”

“But how did Sir Robert come to know?” asked another, “that Reilly was with the parson’?”

“Who the deuce here can tell that?” replied several.

“The thing was a hoax,” said Johnston, “and a cursed uncomfortable one for us.  But here comes these fellows, just as they went, it seems.  Well, boys, no trail of this cunning fox?”

“Trail!” exclaimed the others.  “Gad, you might as well hunt for your grandmother’s needle in a bottle of straw.  The truth is, the man’s not in the country, and whoever gave the information as to the parson keeping him was some enemy of the parson’s more than of Reilly’s, I’ll go bail.  Come, now, let us go back, and give an account of our luck, and then to our barracks.”