“My child, did you hear me?” said her father.  “How did this heartless and down-looking scoundrel get into your apartment?”

She looked quickly upon her father’s features—­

“How?” said she; “how but by treachery, falsehood, and fraud!  Is he not Val M’Clutchy’s son, my dear father?”

Her brothers had not yet uttered a syllable, but stood like their sister with flushed cheeks and burning indignation in their eyes.  On hearing what their sister had just said, however, as if they had all been moved by the same impulse, thought, or determination—­as in truth they were—­their countenances became pale as death—­they looked at each other significantly—­then at Phil—­and they appeared very calm, as if relieved—­satisfied; but the expression of the eye darkened into a meaning that was dreadful to look upon.

“That is enough, my child,” replied her father; “I suppose, my friends, you are now satisfied—.”

“Yes, by h—­l,” shouted Burke, “we are now satisfied.”

Irwin had him again by the neck—­“Silence,” said he, “or, as heaven’s above mo, I’ll drive your brainless skull in with the butt of my pistol.”

“You are satisfied,” continued M’Loughlin, “that there are no arms here.  I hope you will now withdraw.  As for you, treacherous and cowardly spawn of a treacherous and cowardly father, go home and tell him to do his worst.—­that I scorn and defy him—­that I will live to see him——­; but I am wrong,he is below our anger, and I will not waste words upon him.”

“You will find you have used a thrifle too many for all that,” said another of them; “when he hears them, you may be sure he’ll put them in his pocket for you—­as hear them he will.”

“We don’t care a d—­n,” said another, “what he does to blackguard Papishes, so long as he’s a right good Orangeman, and a right good Protestant, too.”

“Come now,” said Irwin, “our duty is over—­let us start for home; we have no further business here.”

“Won’t you give us something to drink?” asked a new voice; “I think we desarve it for our civility.  We neither broke doors nor furniture, nor stabbed either bed or bed-clothes.  We treated you well, and if you’re dacent you’ll treat us well.”

“Confound him,” said a fresh hand; “I’d not drink his cursed Papish whiskey.  Sure the Papishes gets the priest to christen it for them.  I wouldn’t drink his cursed Papish whiskey.”

“No, nor I,” said several voices;—­upon which a loud and angry dispute arose among them, as to whether it were consistent with true loyalty, and the duties of a staunch Protestant and Orangeman, to drink ’Papish liquor,’ as they termed it, at all.

Irwin, who joined the negative party, insisted strongly that it would be disgraceful for any man who had drunk the glorious, pious, and immortal memory, ever to contaminate his loyal lips with whiskey that had been made a Papish of by the priest.  This carried the argument, or otherwise it is hard to say what mischief might have arisen, had they heightened their previous intoxication.