“My dear,” said his wife, “you must be aware that the Popishers have only got liberty to clatter their beads in public; but not to marry a Popisher to a Protestanter.  This is a glorious opportunity for you to come home with a feather in your cap, my dear.  Has he far to go, Mr. Strong? because he never goes out after the black game, as you call them, sir, that I don’t feel as if I—­but I can’t express what I feel at his dear absence.”

Now we have said that Smellpriest was drunk, which, in point of fact, was true; but not so drunk but that he observed some intelligent glances pass between his wife and the broad-shouldered curate.

“No, madam, only about two miles.  Smellpriest, you know Jack Houlaghan’s stripe?”

“Yes—­I know Jack Houlaghan’s stripe, in Kilrudden.”

“Well, when you g’et to the centre of the stripe, look a little to your right, and—­as the night is light enough—­you will see a house—­a cottage rather; to this cottage bring your men, and there you will find your game.  I would not, captain, under other circumstances, advise you to recruit your spirits with an additional glass or two of liquor; but, as the night is cold, I really do recommend you to fortify yourself with a little refreshment.”

He was easily induced to do so, and he accordingly took a couple of glasses of punch, and when about to mount his horse, it was found that he could not do so without the assistance of his men who were on duty, in all about six, every one of whom, as well as the captain himself, was well armed.  It is unnecessary to state to the reader that the pursuit was a vain one.  They searched the house to no purpose; neither priest or friar was there, and he, consequently, had the satisfaction of performing another wild-goose chase with his usual success, whenever the Rev. Samson Strong sent him in pursuit.  In the meantime the moon went down, and the night became exceedingly dark; but the captain’s spirits were high and boisterous, so much so that they began to put themselves forth in song, the song in question being the once celebrated satire upon James the Second and Tyrconnell, called “Lillibullero,” now “The Protestant Boys.”  How this song gained so much popularity it is difficult to guess, for we are bound to say that a more pointless and stupid production never came from the brain of man.  Be this as it may, we must leave the gallant captain and his gang singing it in full chorus, and request our readers to accompany us to another locality.

The sheriff had now recovered from a dreadful attack of the prevailing epidemic, and was able to resume his duties.  In the meantime he had heard of the change which had taken place in the administration of affairs at headquarters—­a change at which he felt no regret, but rather a good deal of satisfaction, as it relieved him from the performance of very disagreeable and invidious duties, and the execution of many severe and inhuman laws.  He was now looking over and signing some papers, when he rang the bell, and a servant entered.  “Tom,” said he, “there is an old man, a poor mendicant, to call here, who was once a servant in our family; when he comes show him into the office.  I expect some important family information from him respecting the property which we are disputing about in the Court of Chancery.”