—­Fergus Reilly begins to Contravene the Red Rapparee

After Malcomson quitted him, the squire, with his golden-headed cane, went to saunter about his beautiful grounds and his noble demesne, proud, certainly, of his property, nor insensible to the beautiful scenery which it presented from so many points of observation.  He had not been long here when a poor-looking peasant, dressed in shabby frieze, approached him at as fast a pace as he could accomplish; and the squire, after looking at him, exclaimed, in an angry tone: 

“Well, you rascal, what the devil brings you here?”

The man stood for a little, and seemed so much exhausted and out of breath that he could not speak.

“I say, you unfortunate old vagrant,” repeated the squire, “what brought you here?”

“It is a case of either life or death, sir,” replied the poor peasant.

“Why,” said the squire, “what crime did you commit?  Or, perhaps, you broke prison, and are flying from the officers of justice; eh! is that it?  And you come to ask a magistrate to protect you!”

“I am flying from the agents of persecution, sir, and know not where to hide my head in order to avoid them.”

The hard-pressed but amiable priest—­for such he was—­adopted this language of truth, because he knew the squire’s character, and felt that it would serve him more effectually than if he had attempted to conceal his profession.  “I am a Catholic priest, sir, and felt from bitter experience that this disguise was necessary to the preservation of my life.  I throw myself upon your honor and generosity, for although hasty, sir, you are reported to have a good and kind heart.”

“You are disposed to place confidence in me, then?”

“I am, sir; my being before you now, and putting myself in your power, is a proof of it.”

“Who are pursuing you?  Sir Robert Whitecraft—­eh?”

“No, sir, Captain Smellpriest and his gang.”

“Ay, out of the frying pan into the fire; although I don’t know that, either.  They say Smellpriest can do a generous thing sometimes—­but the other, when priest-hunting, never.  What’s your name?”

“I’ll tell you, without hesitation, sir—­Macguire; I’m of the Macguires of Fermanagh.”

“Ay! ay! why, then, you have good blood in your veins.  But what offence were you guilty of that you—­but I need not ask; it is enough, in the present state of the laws, that you are a Catholic priest.  In the meantime, are you aware that I myself transported a Catholic priest, and that he would have swung only for my daughter, who went to the viceroy, and, with much difficulty, got his sentence commuted to transportation for life?  I myself had already tried it, and failed; but she succeeded, God bless her!”

“Yes, God bless her!” replied the priest, “she succeeded, and her fame has gone far and near, in consequence; yes, may God of his mercy bless and guard her from all evil!” and as the poor hunted priest spoke, the tears came to his eyes.  This symptom of respect and affection, prompted by the generous and heroic conduct of the far-famed Cooleen Bawn, touched her father, and saved the priest.