“And which character did you prefer among them all?” asked Reilly, with a smile which he could not repress.

“Oh, in troth, you needn’t ask that, Mr. R.—­hem—­you needn’t ask that.  The first morning I took to the fiddle I was about to give myself up to government at once.  As for my part, I’d be ashamed to tell you how sent those that were unlucky enough to ear my music scampering across the country.”

“And, pray, how long is that since?”

“Why, something better than three weeks, the Lord pity me!”

“And what description of dress did you wear on that occasion?” asked Reilly.

“Dress-why, then, an old yellow caubeen, a blue frieze coat, and—­movrone, oh! a striped breeches.  And the worst of it was, that big Paddy Mullin, from Mullaghmore, having met me in old Darby Doyle’s, poor man, where I went to take a little refreshment, ordered in something to eat, and began to make me play for him.  There was a Protestant in the house, too, so that I couldn’t tell him who I was, and I accordingly began, and soon cleared the house of them.  God bless you, sir, you could little dream of all I went through.  I was one day set in the house I was concealed in, in the town of Ballyrogan, and only for the town fool, Art M’Kenna, I suppose I’d have swung before this.”

“How was that?” asked Reilly.

“Why, sir, one day I got the hard word that they would be into the house where I was in a few minutes.  To escape them in my own dress I knew was impossible; and what was to be done?  The poor fool, who was as true as steel, came to my relief.  ‘Here,’ said he, ’exchange wid me.  I’ll put on your black clothes, and you’ll put on my red ones’—­he was dressed like an old soldier—­’then I’ll take to my scrapers, an’ while they are in pursuit of me you can escape to some friend’s house, where you may get another dress.  ‘God knows,’ said he, with a grin on him I didn’t like, ’it’s a poor exchange on my part.  You can play the fool, and cock your cap, without any one to ask you for authority,’ says he, ’and if I only marry a wrong couple I may be hanged.  Go off now.’  Well, sir, out I walked, dressed in a red coat, military hat, white knee-breeches, and black leggings.  As I was going out I met the soldiers.  ’Is the priest inside, Art?’ they asked.  I pointed in a wrong direction.  ’Up by Kilclay?’ I nodded.  They first searched the house, however, but found neither priest nor fool; only one of them, something sharper than the rest, went out of the back door, and saw unfortunate Art, dressed in black, running for the bare life.  Of course they thought it was me they had.  Off they started; and a tolerable chase Art put them to.  At last he was caught, after a run across the country of about four miles; but ne’er a word came out of his lips, till a keen fellow, on looking closely at him, discovered the mistake.  Some of them were then going to kill the poor fool, but others interfered, and wouldn’t