“I’ll advance him money,” said Martin.

“Do you mean you’ve no money at all?” said the parson.

“Don’t you hear me say so?” said Barry.

“And you’ll go if you get money—­say ten pounds?” said the parson.

“Ten pounds!  I can go nowhere with ten pounds.  You know that well enough.”

“I’ll give him twenty-five,” said Martin.  “I’m sure his sister’ll do that for him.”

“Say fifty,” said Barry, “and I’m off at once.”

“I haven’t got it,” said Martin.

“No,” said the parson; “I’ll not see you bribed to go:  take the twenty-five—­that will last you till you make arrangements about your property.  We are not going to pay you for going, Mr Lynch.”

“You seem very anxious about it, any way.”

“I am anxious about it,” rejoined the parson.  “I am anxious to save your sister from knowing what it was that her brother wished to accomplish.”

Barry scowled at him as though he would like, if possible, to try his hand at murdering him; but he did not answer him again.  Arrangements were at last made for Barry’s departure, and off he went, that very day—­not to Roscommon, but to Tuam; and there, at the instigation of Martin, Daly the attorney took upon himself the division and temporary management of the property.  From thence, with Martin’s, or rather with his sister’s twenty-five pounds in his pocket, he started to that Elysium for which he had for some time so ardently longed, and soon landed at Boulogne, regardless alike of his sister, his future brother, Lord Ballindine, or Mr Armstrong.  The parson had found it quite impossible to carry out one point on which he had insisted.  He could not induce Barry Lynch to write to his sister:  no, not a line; not a word.  Had it been to save him from hanging he could hardly have induced himself to write those common words, “dear sister”.

“Oh! you can tell her what you like,” said he.  “It’s you’re making me go away at once in this manner.  Tell her whatever confounded lies you like; tell her I’m gone because I didn’t choose to stay and see her make a fool of herself—­and that’s the truth, too.  If it wasn’t for that I wouldn’t move a step for any of you.”

He went, however, as I have before said, and troubled the people of Dunmore no longer, nor shall he again trouble us.

“Oh! but Martin, what nonsense!” said the widow, coaxingly to her son, that night before she went to bed.  “The lord wouldn’t be going up there just to wish him good bye—­and Parson Armstrong too.  What the dickens could they be at there so long?  Come, Martin—­you’re safe with me, you know; tell us something about it now.”

“Nonsense, mother; I’ve nothing to tell:  Barry Lynch has left the place for good and all, that’s all about it.”

“God bless the back of him, thin; he’d my lave for going long since.  But you might be telling us what made him be starting this way all of a heap.”