Mr. Folliard, though a healthy-looking man, was, in point of fact, by no means so.  Of a nervous and plethoric habit, though brave, and even intrepid, yet he was easily affected by anything or any person that was disagreeable to him.  On seeing the man whose hand had been raised against his life, and what was still more atrocious, whose criminal designs upon the honor of his daughter had been proved by his violent irruption into her chamber, he felt a suffocating sensation of rage and horror that nearly overcame him.

“Sir Robert,” he said, “excuse me; the sight of this man has sickened me.  I got your note, and in your society and at your request I have suffered him to come here; under your protection, too.  May God forgive me for it!  The room is too close—­I feel unwell—­pray open the door.”

“Will there be no risk, sir, in leaving the door open?” said the baronet.

“None in the world!  I have sent the servants all to bed nearly an hour ago.  Indeed, the fact is, they are seldom up so late, unless when I have company.”

Sir Robert then opened the door—­that is to say, he left it a little more than ajar, and returning again took his seat.

“Don’t let the sight of me frighten you, sir,” said the Rapparee.  “I never was your enemy nor intended you harm.”

“Frighten me!” replied the courageous old squire; “no, sir, I am not a man very easily frightened; but I will confess that the sight of you has sickened me and filled me with horror.”

“Well, now, Mr. Folliard,” said the baronet, “let this matter, this misunderstanding, this mistake, or rather this deep and diabolical plot on the part of the Jesuit, Reilly, be at once cleared up.  We wish, that is to say I wish, to prevent your good nature from being played upon by a designing villain.  Now, O’Donnel, relate, or rather disclose, candidly and truly, all that took place with respect to this damnable plot between you and Reilly.”

“Why, the thing, sir,” said the Rapparee, addressing himself to the squire, “is very plain and simple; but, Sir Robert, it was not a plot between me and Reilly—­the plot was his own.  It appears that he saw your daughter and fell desperately in love with her, and knowin’ your strong feeling against Catholics, he gave up all hopes of being made acquainted with Miss Folliard, or of getting into her company.  Well, sir, aware that you were often in the habit of goin’ to the town of Boyle, he comes to me and says in the early part of the day, ’Randal, I will give you fifty goolden guineas if you help me in a plan I have in my head.’  Now, fifty goolden guineas isn’t easily earned; so I, not knowing what the plan was at the time, tould him I could not say nothing till I heard it.  He then tould me that he was over head and ears in love with your daughter, and that have her he should if it cost him his life.  ‘Well,’ says I, ‘and how can I help you?’ ‘Why,’ said he, ’I’ll show you that:  her ould persecuting scoundrel of a father’—­excuse me, sir—­I’m givin’ his own words—­”