“I appale to this gintleman,” said Father Peter turning to the stranger.  “Are you a classical scholar, sir—­that is, do you understand Latin?”

“What kind?” demanded the stranger dryly.

“If you have read Corderius’s Colloquies, it will do,” said Father Peter.

“No, sir,” replied the other, “but I have read his commentator, Bardolphus, who wrote a treatise upon the Nasus Rubricundus of the ancients.”

“Well, sir, if you did, it’s probable that you may be able to understand our dispute, so”—­

“Peter, I’m afeard you’ve got into the wrong box; for I say he’s no chicken that’s read Nasus Rubricundus, I can tell you that; I had my own trouble with it:  but, at any rate, will you take your punch, man alive, and don’t bother us with your Latin?”

“I beg your pardon, Father Ned:  I insist that.  I’m right; and I’ll convince you that you’re wrong, if God spares me to see Corderius to-morrow.”

“Very well then, Pether, if you’re to decide it to-morrow, let us have no more of it tonight.”

During this conversation between the two reverend worthies, the group around the fire were utterly astonished at the erudition displayed in this learned dispute.

“Well, to be sure, larnin’s a great thing, entirely,” said M’Roarkin, aside, to Shane Fadh.

“Ah, Tom, there’s nothing like it:  well, any way, it’s wonderful what they know!”

“Indeed it is, Shane—­and in so short a time, too!  Sure, it’s not more nor five or six years since Father Pether there used to be digging praties on the one ridge with myself—­by the same token, an excellent spadesman he was—­and now he knows more nor all the Protestant parsons in the Diocy.”

“Why, how could they know any thing, when they don’t belong to the thrue church?” said Shane.

“Thrue for you, Shane,” replied M’Roaran; “I disremimbered that clincher.”

This discourse ran parallel with the dispute between the two priests, but in so low a tone as not to reach the ears of the classical champions, who would have ill-brooked this eulogium upon Father Peter’s agricultural talent.

“Don’t bother us, Pether, with your arguing to-night,” said Father Ned, “it’s enough for you to be seven days in the week at your disputations.—­Sir, I drink to our better acquaintance.”

“With all my heart, sir,” replied the stranger.

“Father Ned,” said Nancy, “the gintleman was going to tell us a sthrange story, sir, and maybe your Reverence would wish to hear it, docthor?”

“Certainly, Nancy, we’ll be very happy to hear any story the gintleman may plase to tell us; but, Nancy, achora, before he begins, what if you’d just fry a slice or two of that glorious flitch, hanging over his head, in the corner?—­that, and about six eggs, Nancy, and you’ll have the priest’s blessing, gratis.”

“Why, Father Ned, it’s too fresh, entirely—­sure it’s not a week hanging yet.