it went against himself?—­why, Bryan M’Mahon.  Who ever defended the absent?—­why, Bryan M’Mahon.  Who ever and always took the part of the weak and defenceless against the strong and tyrannical?—­why, Bryan M’Mahon.  Who fought for his religion, too, when the young heretics used to turn it, or try to turn it, into ridicule—­ay, and when cowardly and traicherous Hycy used to sit quietly by, and either put the insult in his pocket, or curry favor wid the young sneering vagabonds that abused it?  And yet, at the time Hycy was a thousand times a greater little bigot than Bryan.  The one, wid a juvenile rabble at his back, three to one, was a tyrant over the young schismatics; whilst Bryan, like a brave youth as he was, ever and always protected them against the disadvantage of numbers, and insisted on showing them fair play.  I am warm, Mrs. Cavanagh,” he continued, “and heat, you know, generates thirst.  I know that a drop o’ the right sort used to be somewhere undher this same roof; but I’m afraid if the fama clamosa be thrue, that the side of the argument I have taken isn’t exactly such as to guarantee me a touch at the native—­that is, taking it for granted that there’s any in the house.”

This request was followed by a short silence.  The Cavanagh’s all, with the exception of Kathleen, looked at each other, but every eye was marked either by indecision or indifference.  At length Hanna looked at her sister, and simply said, “dear Kathleen!”

“He has done,” replied the latter, in a low voice, “what I had not the generosity to do—­he has defended the absent.”

“Darling Kathleen,” Hanna whispered, and then pressed her once more to her heart.  “You must have it, Mr. O’Finigan,” said she—­“you must have it, and that immediately;” and as she spoke, she proceeded to a cupboard from which she produced a large black bottle, filled with that peculiar liquid to which our worthy pedagogue was so devotedly addicted.

“Ah,” said he, on receiving a bumper from the fair hand of Hanna, “let the M’Mahons alone for the old original—­indeed I ought to say—­aboriginal hospitality.  Thanks, Miss Hanna; in the meantime I will enunciate a toast, and although we shall not draw very strongly upon sentiment for the terms, it shall be plain and pithy; here is ’that the saddle of infamy may be soon placed upon the right horse,’ and maybe there’s an individual not a thousand miles from us, and who is besides not altogether incognizant of the learned languages, including a tolerably comprehensive circle of mathematics, who will, to a certain extent, contribute to the consummation of that most desirable event; here then, I repate, is the toast—­’may the saddle of infamy soon be placed upon the right horse!’”

Having drunk off the glass, he turned the mouth of it down upon his corduroy breeches, as an intimation that he might probably find it necessary to have recourse to it again.