“No, I am going over to that farm-house, Tom Brady’s; two or three of his family are ill of fever, and I wish to do something for him; I am about to make him my land bailiff.”

“What stay will you make there, your honor?”

“A very short one—­not more than ten or fifteen minutes.”

“Would it be inconvenient for your honor to remain there, or somewhere about the house, for an hour, or may be a little longer?”

“For what purpose?  You are a mysterious old fellow.”

“Bekaise, if you’d wish to see the man that robbed you, I’ll undhertake to show him to you, face to face, within that time.  Will your honor promise this?”

The sheriff paused upon this proposal, coming as it did from such an equivocal authority.  What, thought he, if it should be a plot for my life, in consequence of the fines which I have been forced to levy upon the Catholic priests and bishops in my official capacity.  God knows I feel it to be a painful duty.

“What is your religion?” he asked, “and why should a gentleman in my condition of life place any confidence upon the word of a common vagrant like you, who must necessarily be imbued with all the prejudices of your creed—­for I suppose you are a Catholic?”

“I am, sir; but, for all that, in half an hour’s time I’ll be a rank Protestant.”

The sheriff smiled and asked, “How the devil’s that?”

“You are dressed in black, sir, in murnin’ for your wife.  I have seen you go into Tom Brady’s to give the sick creatures the rites of their Church.  I give notice to Sir Robert Whitecraft that a priest is there; and my word to you, he and his hounds will soon be upon you.  The man that robbed you will be among them—­no, but the foremost of them; and if you don’t know him, I can’t help it—­that’s all, your honor.”

“Well,” replied the sheriff, “I shall give you nothing now; because I know not whether what you say can be relied upon or not.  In the meantime, I shall remain an hour or better, in Brady’s house; and if your words are not made good, I shall send to Sir Robert Whitecraft for a military party to escort me home.”

“I know, your honor,” replied Fergus, “that Sir Robert and his men are at home to-day; and if I don’t fulfil my words, I’ll give your honor lave to whip me through the county.”

“Well,” said the sheriff, “I shall remain an hour or so in Brady’s; but I tell you that if you are deceiving me you shall not escape me; so look to it, and think if what you propose to me is honest or not—­if it be not, woe betide you.”

Fergus immediately repaired to Sir Robert Whitecraft, to whom he represented himself as a poor Protestant of the name of Bingham, and informed him that a Popish priest was then in Tom Brady’s house, administering the rites of Popery to those who were sick in the family.

“I seen him, your honor, go into the house; and he’s there this minute’.  If your honor makes haste you’ll catch him.”