“Did you foresee in your prophecies this mornin’ that you’d get yourself well drubbed before night?” asked Dalton, bristling up.

“No,” said the other; “my prophecy seen no one able to do it.”

“You and your prophecy are liars, then,” retorted the other:  “an’ in the doom you’re kind enough to give me, don’t be too sure but you meant yourself.  There’s more of murdher an’ the gallows in your face than there is in mine.  That’s all I’ll say, Donnel.  Anything else you’ll get from me will be a blow; so take care of yourself.”

“Let him alone, Donnel,” said Sullivan; “it’s not safe to meddle with one of his name.  You don’t know what harm he may do you.”

“I’m not afeard of him,” said the prophet, with a sneer; “he’ll find himself a little mistaken, if he tries his hand.  It won’t be for me you’ll hang, my lad.”

The words were scarcely uttered when a terrific blow on the eye, struck with the rapidity of lightning, shot him to the earth, where he lay for about half a minute, apparently insensible.  He then got up, and after shaking his head, as if to rid himself of a sense of confusion and stupor, looked at Dalton for some time.

“Well,” said he, “it’s all over now—­but the truth is, the fault was my own.  I provoked him too much, an’ without any occasion.  I’m sorry you struck me, Condy, for I was only jokin’ all the time.  I never had ill-will against you; an’ in spite of what has happened, I haven’t now.”

A feeling of generous regret, almost amounting to remorse, instantly touched Dalton’s heart; he seized the hand of Donnel, and expressed his sorrow for the blow he had given him.

“My God,” he exclaimed, “why did I strike you?  But sure no one could for a minute suppose that you weren’t in earnest.”

“Well, well,” said the other, “let it be a warnin’ to both of us; to me, in the first place, never to carry a joke too far; and to you, never to allow your passion to get the betther of you, afaird that you might give a blow in anger that you’d have cause to repent of all the days of your life.  My eye and cheek is in a frightful state; but no matther, Condy, I forgive you, especially in the hope that you’ll mark my advice.”

Dalton once more asked his pardon, and expressed his unqualified sorrow at what had occurred; after which he again shook hands with Dalton and departed.

Sullivan felt surprised at this rencontre, especially at the nature of its singular termination; he seemed, however, to fall into a meditative and gloomy mood, and observed when Dalton had gone—­

“If I ever had any doubt, Donnel, that my poor brother owed his death to a Dalton, I haven’t it now.”

“I don’t blame you much for sayin’ so,” replied Donnel.  “I’m sorry myself for what has happened, and especially as you were present.  I’m afeard, indeed’, that a man’s life would be but little in that boy’s hands under a fit of passion.  I provoked him too much, though.”