of course granted, and Larry retired amid the laughter of the guests—­but as he retreated, he could not avoid casting a glance on the awful picture—­and again the Saint winked, with a most malicious smile.  It was impossible to endure the repeated infliction, and Larry rushed down the stairs in an agony of fright and amazement.  “May be,” thought he, “it might be my own eyes that wasn’t quite steady—­or the flame of the candle.  But no—­he winked at me as plain as ever I winked at Judy Donaghue of a May morning.  What he manes by it I can’t say—­but there’s no use of thinking about it—­no, nor of talking neither, for who’ d believe me if I tould them of it?”

The next evening Sir Theodore died, as has been mentioned; and in due time thereafter was buried according to the custom of the family, by torch-light, in the churchyard of Inistubber.  All was fitly performed; and although Dickenson had no design upon the jovial knight—­and if he had not, there was nobody within fifteen miles that could be suspected of such an outrage,—­yet Larry Sweeney was determined to make good his promise of watching his master.  “I’d think little of telling a lie to him, by the way of no harm when he was alive,” said he, wiping his eyes, as soon as the last of the train had departed, leaving him with a single companion in the lonely cemetery; “but now that he’s dead—­God rest his soul!—­I’d scorn it.  So Jack Kinaley, as behoves my first cousin’s son, stay you with me here this blessed night, for betune (between) you and I, it an’t lucky to stay by one’s self in this ruinated old rookery, where ghosts, God help us, is as thick as bottles in Sir Theodore’s cellar!” “Never you mind that, Larry,” said Kinaley, a discharged soldier, who had been through all the campaigns of the Peninsula; “never mind, I say, such botherations.  Han’t I lain in bivouack on the field at Salamanca, and Tallawara, and the Pyrumnees, and many another place beside, where there was dead corpses lying about in piles, and there was no more ghosts than kneebuckles in a ridgemint of Highlanders.  Here, let me prime them pieces, and hand us over the bottle; we’ll stay snug under this east window, for the wind’s coming down the hill, and I defy”—­“None of that bould talk, Jack,” said his cousin; “as for what ye saw in foreign parts, of dead men killed afighting, sure that’s nothing to the dead—­God rest ’em!—­that’s here.  There you see, they had company one with the other, and being killed fresh-like that morning, had no heart to stir; but here, faith! ’tis a horse of another colour.”  “May be it is,” said Jack, “but the night’s coming on; so I’ll turn in.  Wake me if you sees any thing; and after I’ve got my two hours’ rest, I’ll relieve you.”