“No,” she replied, no whit daunted, “no, I’m near my eightieth year.  I’m old, and wrinkled, and gray—­my memory forgets everything now but my own crimes, and the crimes of those that are still worse than myself—­old I am, and wicked, and unrepenting—­but I shall yet live to pour the curses that rise out of an ill-spent life into his dying oar, until his very soul will feel the scorches of perdition before its everlasting tortures come upon it in hell.  I am old,” she proceeded, “but I will yet live to see the son that cursed his mother, and threatened to raise his sacrilegious hand against her that bore him, laid down like a tree, rooted up and lopped—­lying like a rotten log, without sap, without strength, and only fit to be cut up and cast into the fire.  I am old,” she replied, “but I shall live to see out the guilty race of you all.”

“Go to the devil, you croaking old vagabond,” exclaimed Phil, raising his whip, and letting it fall upon her almost naked shoulders, with a force as unmanly, as it was cruel, and impious, and shocking.

She uttered a scream of anguish, and writhed several times, until her eyes became filled with tears.  “My cup is not full yet,” she exclaimed, sobbing, “neither is yours, but it soon will be, you knew me well when you gave that blow; but go now, and see how you’ll prosper after it.”

Sharpe, even Sharpe, felt shocked at the cowardly spirit which could inflict such an outrage upon old age, under any circumstances; but much less under those which even he understood so well.

“Captain,” said he, “if it was only for the credit of the Castle Cumber cavalry, I’m sorry that you gave that blow; those men on the other side of the road there were looking at you, and you may take my word it will spread.”

“How dare you speak to me in that style?” asked Phil in a rage, and availing himself of his authority over him, “what is it your business, Sharpe?  Sharpe, you’re a scoundrel, for speaking to me in this style—­damn my honor and blood, but you are.  What do you know about that old vagabond?”

“Captain,” said Sharpe, who was a sturdy fellow in his way, “I’m no scoundrel; and I do know that you have just horsewhipped your notorious ould grandmother.”

“Fall back,” said Phil, “and consider yourself arrested.”

“Arrest and be hanged,” replied Sharpe, “I don’t care a fig about you—­I was in Deaker’s corps this many a year, and if you attempt to come the officer over me, let me tell you you’re mistaken.  We’re not on duty now, my buck, and you have no more authority over me than you have over the devil—­me a scoundrel! my good fellow, I know who is the scoundrel.”

“My good fellow!  Damn my honor and blood, do you apply that to me?”

“No, I don’t,” said Sharpe, “for you’re a cursed bad fellow, and no gentleman—­didn’t Harman pull your nose in Castle Cumber, and you wanted the courage then that you had for your ould grandmother—­me, a scoundrel!”