It’s a d——­d bounce, M’Clutchy, you did no such thing, I tell you.  D—­n you altogether, I say!  I would rather the devil had the whole troop, as he will too, with Captain M’Clutchy at the head of them—­”

“Don’t get into insubordination, my hero,” said his father; “why do you put me over Lord Cumber’s head?”

“Ay,” replied the son, “when sending you-to Headquarters, you mean; yes, my old knave, and when he and you and the whole kit of you get there, you’ll know then what permanent duty means.  That scoundrel Hartley will be sending a challenge to me.”

“Make your mind easy, Phil,” replied his virtuous father, “there is not the slightest danger of that; here’s his reply to Armstrong, which Dick himself handed me in Castle Cumber, a while ago.  Read that and let it console you.”

Phil accordingly read Hartley’s letter, in which both he and his father were mentioned with such marked respect; and never did reprieve come to a shivering, inanimate, and hopeless felon with the hangman’s noose neatly settled under his left ear, with a greater sense of relief than did this communication to him.  In fact, he had reached that meanness and utter degradation of soul which absolutely feels comfort, and is glad to take refuge, in the very contempt of an enemy.

“I hope you’re satisfied,” said his father.

“All right, my old fellow—­all right, Captain M’Clutchy, Magistrate and Grand-juror.  Damn my honor, but you’re a fine old cock, Val—­and now I have spirits to take a glass of brandy, which I hadn’t this whole morning before.”

“Phil,” said the father, “how do you think I can ever get you appointed to the magistracy if you take to drink?”

“Drink! why, blood, my old boy, is it this to me!  Do you mean to tell me that there are no drunken magistrates on the bench?  Drink! why, man, let me drink, swear, and play the devil among the ladies, surely you know that my thorough Protestantism and loyalty will make up for, and redeem all.  Hey, then, for the glass of brandy, in which I’ll drink your health, and hang me, I’ll not abuse you again—­unless when you deserve it, ha, ha, ha!”

“At all events,” said Val, “keep yourself steady for this day; this is the day, Phil, on which I will glut my long cherished vengeance against Brian M’Loughlin—­against him and his.  I shall leave them this night without a roof over their heads, as I said I would, and, Phil, when you are in possession of his property and farm, and he and his outcasts, he will then understand what I meant, when I told him with a boiling heart in Castle Cumber Fair, that his farm and mine lay snugly together.”

“But what will you do with the sick woman, I mean his wife?” asked Phil, putting a glass of brandy to his lips, and winking at his father; “what will you do with the sick woman, I say?”

Val’s face became so frightfully ghastly, and presented so startling a contrast between his complexion and black bushy brows, that even Phil himself got for a moment alarmed, and said:—­