“Well, your honour, he thried to keep himself quite an’ asy, an’ he thought two or three times he might have wint asleep, but for the way the storm was groanin’ and creekin’ through the great heavy branches outside, an’ whistlin’ through the ould chimnies iv the castle.  Well, afther one great roarin’ blast iv the wind, you’d think the walls iv the castle was just goin’ to fall, quite an’ clane, with the shakin’ iv it.  All av a suddint the storm stopt, as silent an’ as quite as if it was a July evenin’.  Well, your honour, it wasn’t stopped blowin’ for three minnites, before he thought he hard a sort iv a noise over the chimney-piece; an’ with that my father just opened his eyes the smallest taste in life, an’ sure enough he seen the ould squire gettin’ out iv the picthur, for all the world as if he was throwin’ aff his ridin’ coat, until he stept out clane an’ complate, out av the chimly-piece, an’ thrun himself down an the floor.  Well, the slieveen ould chap—­an’ my father thought it was the dirtiest turn iv all—­before he beginned to do anything out iv the way, he stopped, for a while, to listen wor they both asleep; an’ as soon as he thought all was quite, he put out his hand, and tuck hould iv the whiskey bottle, an’ dhrank at laste a pint iv it.  Well, your honour, when he tuck his turn out iv it, he settled it back mighty cute intirely, in the very same spot it was in before.  An’ he beginn’d to walk up an’ down the room, lookin’ as sober an’ as solid as if he never done the likes at all.  An’ whinever he went apast my father, he thought he felt a great scent of brimstone, an’ it was that that freckened him entirely; for he knew it was brimstone that was burned in hell, savin’ your presence.  At any rate, he often heer’d it from Father Murphy, an’ he had a right to know what belonged to it—­he’s dead since, God rest him.  Well, your honour, my father was asy enough until the sperit kem past him; so close, God be marciful to us all, that the smell iv the sulphur tuck the breath clane out iv him; an’ with that he tuck such a fit iv coughin’, that it al-a-most shuck him out iv the chair he was sittin’ in.

“‘Ho, ho!’ says the squire, stoppin’ short about two steps aff, and turnin’ round facin’ my father, ‘is it you that’s in it?—­an’ how’s all with you, Terry Neil?’

“‘At your honour’s sarvice,’ says my father (as well as the fright id let him, for he was more dead than alive), ‘an’ it’s proud I am to see your honour to-night,’ says he.

“‘Terence,’ says the squire, ‘you’re a respectable man (an’ it was thrue for him), an industhrious, sober man, an’ an example of inebriety to the whole parish,’ says he.

“‘Thank your honour,’ says my father, gettin’ courage, ’you were always a civil spoken gintleman, God rest your honour.’

“‘Rest my honour,’ says the sperit (fairly gettin’ red in the face with the madness), ‘Rest my honour?’ says he.  ‘Why, you ignorant spalpeen,’ says he, ‘you mane, niggarly ignoramush,’ says he, ’where did you lave your manners?’ says he.  ‘If I am dead, it’s no fault iv mine,’ says he; ‘an’ it’s not to be thrun in my teeth at every hand’s turn, by the likes iv you,’ says he, stampin’ his foot an the flure, that you’d think the boords id smash undher him.